JEROME  K.JEROME 


THEY  AND  I 


HE  SIGHED  WHEN   HE  SAW   OUR   KITCHEN" 

(Page   176) 


THEY  AND   I 


BY 


JEROME   K.  JEROME 

Author  of  "Three  Men  in  a  Boa'/^Hle 
Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow,"  "Second 
Thoughts  of  an  Idle  FiMquf">t  fc.    I  ■ 


FRONTISPIECE    BY    E.    A.    POUCHER 


NEW    YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1909 


J5t 
t 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
DODD,  MEAD    AND    COMPANY 

Published,  September,  1909 


CHAPTER  I 

"  It  is  not  a  large  house,"  I  said.  "  We  don't 
want  a  large  house.  Two  spare  "bedrooms,  and 
the  little  three-cornered  place  you  see,  'marked 
there  on  the  plan,  next  to  the  bathroom  and  which 
will  just  do  for  a  bachelor,  will  be  all  we  shall 
require:  at  all  events  for  the  present.  Later  on, 
if  I  ever  get  rich  we  can  throw  out  a  wing.  The 
kitchen  I  shall  have  to  break  to  your  mother 
gently.  Whatever  the  original  architect  could 
have  been  thinking  of " 

"Never  mind  the  kitchen,"  said  Dick;  "what 
about  the  billiard-room?" 

The  way  children  nowadays  will  interrupt  a 
parent  is  nothing  short  of  a  national  disgrace.  I 
also  wish  Dick  would  not  sit  on  the  table,  swinging 
his  legs.  It  is  not  respectful.  "  Why,  when  I 
was  a  boy,"  as  I  said  to  him,  "  I  should  as  soon 
have  thought  of  sitting  on  a  table,  interrupting 

my  father " 

"  What's  this  thing  in  the  middle  of  the  hall, 
that  looks  like  a  grating?"  demanded  Robina. 

1.0 


2  THEY  AND  I 

"  She  means  the  stairs,"  explained  Dick. 

"  Then  why  don't  they  look  like  stairs,"  com- 
mented Robina. 

"They  do,"  replied  Dick,  "to  people  with 
sense." 

;'  They  don't,"  persisted  Robina,  "  they  look 
like  a  gratmg."  -Robina,  with  the  plan  spread  out 
across  her  knee,  was  sitting  balanced  on  the  arm 
of  an  easy  chair.  Really,  I  hardly  see  the  use  of 
buying  chairs  for  these  people.  Nobody  seems  to 
know  what  they  are  for — except  it  be  one  or  an- 
other of  the  dogs.     Perches  are  all  they  want. 

"  If  we  threw  the  drawing-room  into  the  hall 
and  could  do  away  with  the  stairs,"  thought  Ro- 
bina, "  we  should  be  able  to  give  a  dance  now  and 
then." 

"  Perhaps,"  I  suggested  "  you  would  like  to 
clear  out  the  house  altogether,  leaving  nothing  but 
the  four  bare  walls.  That  would  give  us  still 
more  room,  that  would.  For  just  living  in  we 
could  fix  up  a  shed  in  the  garden;  or " 

"I'm  talking  seriously,"  said  Robina;  "what's 
the  good  of  a  drawing-room?  One  only  wants  it 
to  show  the  sort  of  people  into  that  one  wishes 
hadn't  come.       They'd  sit  about,  looking  miser- 


THEY  AND  I  3 

able,  just  as  well  anywhere  else.  If  we  could 
only  get  rid  of  the  stairs " 

"  Oh,  of  course!  we  could  get  rid  of  the  stairs," 
I  agreed.  "  It  would  be  a  bit  awkward  at  first, 
when  we  wanted  to  go  to  bed.  But  I  daresay 
we  should  get  used  to  it.  We  could  have  a  ladder 
and  climb  up  to  our  rooms  through  the  windows. 
Or  we  might  adopt  the  Norwegian  method  and 
have  the  stairs  outside." 

"  I  wish  you  would  be  sensible,"  said  Robin. 

"  I  am  trying  to  be,"  I  explained;  "  and  I  am 
also  trying  to  put  a  little  sense  into  you.  At 
present  you  are  crazy  about  dancing.  If  you  had 
your  way,  you  would  turn  the  house  into  a  dancing 
saloon  with  primitive  sleeping-accommodation  at- 
tached. It  will  last  six  months,  your  dancing 
craze.  Then  you  will  want  the  house  transformed 
into  a  swimming-bath,  or  a  skating-rink,  or  cleared 
out  for  hockey.  My  idea  may  be  conventional.  I 
don't  expect  you  to  sympathise  with  it.  My  no- 
tion is  just  an  ordinary  Christian  house,  not  a  gym- 
nasium. There  are  going  to  be  bedrooms  in  this 
house,  and  there's  going  to  be  a  staircase  leading 
to  them.  It  may  strike  you  as  sordid,  but  there 
is  also  going  to  be  a  kitchen:  though  why  when 


4  THEY  AND  I 

building  the  house  they  should  have  put  the 
kitchen " 

11  Don't  forget  the  billiard-room,"  said  Dick. 

"  If  you  thought  more  of  your  future  career, 
and  less  about  billiards,"  Robin  pointed  out  to 
him,  "  perhaps  you'd  get  through  your  Littlego 
in  the  course  of  the  next  few  years.  If  Pa  only 
had  sense — I  mean  if  he  wasn't  so  absurdly  in- 
dulgent wherever  you  are  concerned,  he  would 
not  have  a  billiard-table  in  the  house." 

"  You  talk  like  that,"  retorted  Dick,  "  merely 
because  you  can't  play." 

"  I  can  beat  you,  anyhow,"  retorted  Robin. 

11  Once,"  admitted  Dick — "  once  in  six  weeks." 

II  Twice,"  corrected  Robin. 

"  You  don't  play,"  Dick  explained  to  her;  "  you 
just  whack  round  and  trust  to  Providence." 

II I  don't  whack  round,"  said  Robin;  "  I  always 
aim  at  something.  When  you  try  and  it  doesn't 
come  off,  you  say  it's  'hard  luck';  and  when  I 
try  and  it  does  come  off,  you  say  it's  fluking.  So 
like  a  man." 

"  You  both  of  you,"  I  said,  "  attach  too  much 
importance  to  the  score.  When  you  try  for  a 
cannon  off  the  white  and  hit  it  on  the  wrong  side 


THEY  AND  I  5 

and  send  it  into  a  pocket,  and  your  own  ball 
travels  on  and  makes  a  losing  hazard  off  the  red, 
instead  of  being  vexed  with  yourselves " 

"  If  you  get  a  really  good  table,  governor," 
said  Dick,  "  I'll  teach  you  billiards." 

I  do  believe  Dick  really  thinks  he  can  play.  It 
is  the  same  with  golf.  Beginners  are  invariably 
lucky.  "I  think  I  shall  like  it,"  they  tell  you; 
"  I  seem  to  have  the  game  in  me,  if  you  under- 
stand." 

There  is  a  friend  of  mine,  an  old  sea-captain. 
He  is  the  sort  of  man  that  when  the  three  balls 
are  lying  in  a  straight  line,  tucked  up  under  the 
cushion,  looks  pleased;  because  then  he  knows 
he  can  make  a  cannon  and  leave  the  red  just 
where  he  wants  it.  An  Irish  youngster  named 
Malooney,  a  college  chum  of  Dick's,  was  staying 
with  us;  and  the  afternoon  being  wet,  the  Captain 
said  he  would  explain  it  to  Malooney,  how  a 
young  man  might  practise  billiards  without  any 
danger  of  cutting  the  cloth.  He  taught  him  how 
to  hold  the  cue,  and  he  told  him  how 
to  make  a  bridge.  Malooney  was  grateful,  and 
worked  for  about  an  hour.  He  did  not  show 
much  promise.     He  is  a  powerfully  built  young 


6  THEY  AND  I 

man,  and  he  didn't  seem  able  to  get  it  into  his 
head  that  he  wasn't  playing  cricket.  Whenever 
he  hit  a  little  low  the  result  was  generally  lost 
ball.  To  save  time — and  damage  to  furniture — 
Dick  and  I  fielded  for  him.  Dick  stood  at  long- 
stop,  and  I  was  short  slip.  It  was  dangerous 
work,  however,  and  when  Dick  had  caught  him 
out  twice  running,  we  agreed  that  we  had  won, 
and  took  him  in  to  tea.  In  the  evening — none 
of  the  rest  of  us  being  keen  to  try  our  luck  a 
second  time — the  Captain  said,  that  just  for  the 
joke  of  the  thing,  he  would  give  Malooney  eighty- 
five  and  play  him  a  hundred  up.  To  confess  the 
truth,  I  find  no  particular  fun  myself  in  playing 
billiards  with  the  Captain.  The  game  consists, 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  in  walking  round  the 
table  throwing  him  back  the  balls,  and  saying 
"Good I"  By  the  time  my  turn  comes  I  don't 
seem  to  care  what  happens;  everything  seems 
against  me.  He  is  a  kind  old  gentleman  and  he 
means  well,  but  the  tone  in  which  he  says  "  Hard 
lines !  "  whenever  I  miss  an  easy  stroke  irritates 
me.  I  feel  I'd  like  to  throw  the  balls  at  his  head 
and  fling  the  table  out  of  the  window.  I  suppose 
it  is  that  I  am  in  a  fretful  state  of  mind,  but  the 


THEY  AND  I  7 

mere  way  in  which  he  chalks  his  cue  aggravates 
me.  He  carries  his  own  chalk  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket — as  if  our  chalk  wasn't  good  enough  for 
him — and  when  he  has  finished  chalking,  he 
smooths  the  tip  round  with  his  finger  and  thumb 
and  taps  the  cue  against  the  table.  "  Oh !  go  on 
with  the  game,"  I  want  to  say  to  him;  "  don't  be 
so  full  of  tricks." 

The  Captain  led  off  with  a  miss  in  baulk. 
Malooney  gripped  his  cue,  drew  in  a  deep  breath, 
and  let  fly.  The  result  was  ten:  a  cannon  and 
all  three  balls  in  the  same  pocket.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  he  made  the  cannon  twice;  but  the  second 
time,  as  we  explained  to  him,  of  course  did  not 
count. 

"Good  beginning!"  said  the  Captain. 

Malooney  seemed  pleased  with  himself,  and 
took  off  his  coat. 

Malooney's  ball  missed  the  red  on  its  first  jour- 
ney up  the  table  by  about  a  foot,  but  found  it  later 
on  and  sent  it  into  a  pocket. 

"  Ninety-nine  plays  nothing,"  said  Dick,  who 
was  marking.  "  Better  make  it  a  hundred  and 
fifty,  hadn't  we,  Captain?" 

"  Well,  I'd  like  to  get  in  a  shot,"  said  the  Cap- 


8  THEY  AND  I 

tain,  "  before  the  game  is  over.  Perhaps  we  had 
better  make  it  a  hundred  and  fifty,  if  Mr.  Ma- 
looney  has  no  objection." 

"  Whatever  you  think  right,  sir,"  said  Rory 
Malooney. 

Malooney  finished  his  break  for  twenty-two, 
leaving  himself  hanging  over  the  middle  pocket 
and  the  red  tucked  up  in  baulk. 

"  Nothing  plays  a  hundred  and  eight,"  said 
Dick. 

"When  I  want  the  score,"  said  the  Captain, 
"  I'll  ask  for  it." 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  Dick. 

"  I  hate  a  noisy  game,"  said  the  Captain. 

The  Captain,  making  up  his  mind  without  much 
waste  of  time,  sent  his  ball  under  the  cushion,  six 
inches  outside  baulk. 

"  What  will  I  do  here?  "  asked  Malooney. 

11 1  don't  know  what  you  will  do,"  said  the 
Captain;  "  I'm  waiting  to  see." 

Owing  to  the  position  of  the  ball,  Malooney 
was  unable  to  employ  his  whole  strength.  All 
he  did  that  turn  was  to  pocket  the  Captain's  ball 
and  leave  himself  under  the  bottom  cushion,  four 
inches  from  the  red.    The  Captain  said  a  nautical 


THEY  AND  I  9 

word,  and  gave  another  miss.  Malooney  squared 
up  to  the  balls  for  the  third  time.  They  flew  be- 
fore him,  panic-stricken.  They  banged  against 
one  another,  came  back  and  hit  one  another  again 
for  no  reason  whatever.  The  red,  in  particular, 
Malooney  had  succeeded  apparently  in  frighten- 
ing out  of  its  wits.  It  is  a  stupid  ball,  generally 
speaking,  our  red — its  one  idea  to  get  under  a 
cushion  and  watch  the  game.  With  Malooney  it 
soon  found  it  was  safe  nowhere  on  the  table.  Its 
only  hope  was  pockets.  I  may  have  been  mis- 
taken, my  eye  may  have  been  deceived  by  the 
rapidity  of  the  play,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  red  never  waited  to  be  hit.  When  it  saw 
Malooney's  ball  coming  for  it  at  the  rate  of  forty 
miles  an  hour,  it  just  made  for  the  nearest  pocket. 
It  rushed  round  the  table  looking  for  pockets. 
If,  in  its  excitement,  it  passed  an  empty  pocket, 
it  turned  back  and  crawled  in.  There  were  times 
when  in  its  terror  it  jumped  the  table  and  took 
shelter  under  the  sofa  or  behind  the  sideboard. 
One  began  to  feel  sorry  for  the  red. 

The  Captain  had  scored  a  legitimate  thirty- 
eight,  and  Malooney  had  given  him  twenty-four, 
when  it  really  seemed  as  if  the  Captain's  chance 


io  THEY  AND  I 

had  come.  I  could  have  scored  myself  as  the  balls 
were  then. 

"  Sixty-two  plays  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight. 
Now  then,  Captain,  game  in  your  hands,"  said 
Dick. 

We  gathered  round.  The  children  left  their 
play.  It  was  a  pretty  picture:  the  bright  young 
faces,  eager  with  expectation,  the  old  worn  veteran 
squinting  down  his  cue,  as  if  afraid  that  watching 
Malooney's  play  might  have  given  it  the  squirms. 

"  Now  follow  this,"  I  whispered  to  Malooney. 
"  Don't  notice  merely  what  he  does,  but  try  and 
understand  why  he  does  it.  Any  fool — after  a 
little  practice,  that  is — can  hit  a  ball.  But  why 
do  you  hit  it?  What  happens  after  you've  hit 
it?     What " 

"  Hush,"  said  Dick. 

The  Captain  drew  his  cue  back  and  gently 
pushed  it  forward. 

"  Pretty  stroke,"  I  whispered  to  Malooney; 
"  now,  that's  the  sort " 

I  offer,  by  way  of  explanation,  that  the  Captain 
by  this  time  was  probably  too  full  of  bottled-up 
language  to  be  master  of  his  nerves.  The  ball 
travelled  slowly  past  the  red.     Dick  said  after- 


THEY  AND  I  n 

wards  that  you  couldn't  have  put  so  much  as  a 
sheet  of  paper  between  them.  It  comforts  a  man, 
sometimes,  when  you  tell  him  this;  and  at  other 
times  it  only  makes  him  madder.  It  travelled  on 
and  passed  the  white — you  could  have  put  quite 
a  lot  of  paper  between  it  and  the  white — and 
dropped  with  a  contented  thud  into  the  top  left- 
hand  pocket. 

"  Why  does  he  do  that?  "  Malooney  whispered. 
Malooney  has  a  singularly  hearty  whisper. 

Dick  and  I  got  the  women  and  children  out 
of  the  room  as  quickly  as  we  could,  but  of  course 
Veronica  managed  to  tumble  over  something  on 
the  way — Veronica  would  find  something  to  tum- 
ble over  in  the  desert  of  Sahara;  and  a  few  days 
later  I  overheard  expressions,  scorching  their  way 
through  the  nursery  door,  that  made  my  hair 
rise  up.  I  entered,  and  found  Veronica  standing 
on  the  table.  Jumbo  was  sitting  upon  the  music 
stool.  The  poor  dog  himself  was  looking  scared, 
though  he  must  have  heard  a  bit  of  language  in 
his  time,  one  way  and  another. 

"  Veronica,"  I  said,  "  are  you  not  ashamed  of 
yourself?    You  wicked  child,  how  dare  you " 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Veronica.    "  I  don't  really 


i2  THEY  AND  I 

mean  any  harm.  He's  a  sailor,  and  I  have  to  talk 
to  him  like  that,  else  he  don't  know  he's  being 
talked  to." 

I  pay  hard-working,  conscientious  ladies  to 
teach  this  child  things  right  and  proper  for  her 
to  know.  They  tell  her  clever  things  that  Julius 
Caesar  said;  observations  made  by  Marcus  Au- 
relius  that,  pondered  over,  might  help  her  to  be- 
come a  beautiful  character.  She  complains  that  it 
produces  a  strange  buzzy  feeling  in  her  head;  and 
her  mother  argues  that  perhaps  her  brain  is  of 
the  creative  order,  not  intended  to  remember  much 
— thinks  that  perhaps  she  is  going  to  be  some- 
thing. A  good  round-dozen  oaths  the  Captain 
must  have  let  fly  before  Dick  and  I  succeeded  in 
rolling  her  out  of  the  room.  She  had  only  heard 
them  once,  yet,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  she  had  got 
them  letter  perfect. 

The  Captain,  now  no  longer  under  the  neces- 
sity of  employing  all  his  energies  to  suppress  his 
natural  instincts,  gradually  recovered  form,  and 
eventually  the  game  stood  at  one  hundred  and 
forty-nine  all.  Malooney  to  play.  The  Captain 
had  left  the  balls  in  a  position  that  would  have 
disheartened  any  other  opponent  than  Malooney. 


THEY  AND  I  13 

To  any  other  opponent  than  Malooney  the  Cap- 
tain would  have  offered  irritating  sympathy. 
"  Afraid  the  balls  are  not  rolling  well  for  you 
to-night,"  the  Captain  would  have  said;  or, 
"  Sorry,  sir,  I  don't  seem  to  have  left  you  very 
much."  To-night  the  Captain  wasn't  feeling 
playful. 

"  Well,  if  he  scores  off  thatl  "  said  Dick. 

11  Short  of  locking  up  the  balls  and  turning  out 
the  lights,  I  don't  myself  see  how  one  is  going  to 
stop  him,"  sighed  the  Captain. 

The  Captain's  ball  was  in  hand.  Malooney 
went  for  the  red  and  hit — perhaps  it  would  be 
more  correct  to  say,  frightened — it  into  a  pocket. 
Malooney's  ball,  with  the  table  to  itself,  then 
gave  a  solo  performance,  and  ended  up  by  break- 
ing a  window.  It  was  what  the  lawyers  call  a 
nice  point.     What  was  the  effect  upon  the  score? 

Malooney  argued  that,  seeing  he  had  pocketed 
the  red  before  his  own  ball  left  the  table,  his  three 
should  be  counted  first,  and  that  therefore  he  had 
won.  Dick  maintained  that  a  ball  that  had  ended 
up  in  a  flower-bed  couldn't  be  deemed  to  have 
scored  anything.  The  Captain  declined  to  assist. 
He  said  that,  although  he  had  been  playing  bil- 


i4  THEY  AND  I 

liards  for  upwards  of  forty  years,  the  incident 
was  new  to  him.  My  own  feeling  was  that  of 
thankfulness  that  we  had  got  through  the  game 
without  anybody  being  really  injured.  We  agreed 
that  the  person  to  decide  the  point  would  be  the 
editor  of  The  Field. 

It  remains  still  undecided.  The  Captain  came 
into  my  study  the  next  morning.  He  said:  "  If 
you  haven't  written  that  letter  to  The  Field,  don't 
mention  my  name.  They  knew  me  on  The  Field. 
I  would  rather  it  did  not  get  about  that  I  have 
been  playing  with  a  man  who  cannot  keep  his 
ball  within  the  four  walls  of  a  billiard-room." 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  "  I  know  most  of  the  fel- 
lows on  The  Field  myself.  They  don't  often  get 
hold  of  anything  novel  in  the  way  of  a  story. 
When  they  do,  they  are  apt  to  harp  upon  it.  My 
idea  was  to  keep  my  own  name  out  of  it  alto- 
gether." 

"  It  is  not  a  point  likely  to  crop  up  often," 
said  the  Captain.  "  I'd  let  it  rest  if  I  were 
you." 

I  should  like  to  have  had  it  settled.  In  the  end, 
I  wrote  the  editor  a  careful  letter,  in  a  disguised 
hand,  giving  a  false  name  and  address.     But  if 


THEY  AND  I  15 

any  answer  ever  appeared  I  must  have  missed 
it. 

Myself  I  have  a  sort  of  consciousness  that  some- 
where inside  me  there  is  quite  a  good  player,  if 
only  I  could  persuade  him  to  come  out.  He  is 
shy,  that  is  all.  He  does  not  seem  able  to  play 
when  people  are  looking  on.  The  shots  he  misses 
when  people  are  looking  on  would  give  you  a 
wrong  idea  of  him.  When  nobody  is  about,  a 
prettier  game  you  do  not  often  see.  If  some  folks 
who  fancy  themselves  could  see  me  when  there 
is  nobody  about,  it  might  take  the  conceit  out  of 
them.  Only  once  I  played  up  to  what  I  feel  is 
my  real  form,  and  then  it  led  to  argument.  I 
was  staying  at  an  hotel  in  Switzerland,  and  the 
second  evening  a  pleasant-spoken  young  fellow, 
who  said  he  had  read  all  my  books — later,  he 
appeared  surprised  on  learning  I  had  written 
more  than  two — asked  me  if  I  would  care  to  play 
a  hundred  up.  We  played  even,  and  I  payed  for 
the  table.  The  next  evening  he  said  he  thought 
it  would  make  a  better  game  if  he  gave  me  forty 
and  I  broke.  It  was  a  fairly  close  finish,  and  af- 
terwards he  suggested  that  I  should  put  down  my 
name  for  the  handicap  they  were  arranging. 


1 6  THEY  AND  I 

"  I  am  afraid,"  I  answered  "  that  I  hardly  play 
well  enough.  Just  a  quiet  game  with  you  is  one 
thing;  but  in  a  handicap  with  a  crowd  looking 
on " 

"I  should  not  let  that  trouble  you,"  he  said; 
"  there  are  some  here  who  play  worse  than  you — 
just  one  or  two.     It  passes  the  evening." 

It  was  merely  a  friendly  affair.  I  paid  my 
twenty  marks,  and  was  given  plus  a  hundred. 
I  drew  for  my  first  game  a  chatty  type  of 
man,  who  started  minus  twenty.  We  neither  of 
us  did  much  for  the  first  five  minutes,  and  then  I 
made  a  break  of  forty-four. 

There  was  not  a  fluke  in  it  from  beginning  to 
end.  I  was  never  more  astonished  in  my  life. 
It  seemed  to  me  it  was  the  cue  was  doing  it. 

Minus  Twenty  was  even  more  astonished.  I 
heard  him  as  I  passed: 

"Who  handicapped  this  man?"  he  asked. 

11 1  did,"  responded  the  pleasant-spoken  young- 
ster. 

"  Oh,"  said  Minus  Twenty — "  friend  of  yours, 
I  presume?  " 

There  are  evenings  that  seem  to  belong  to  you. 
We  finished  that  two  hundred  and  fifty  under 


THEY  AND  I  17 

the  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  I  explained  to 
Minus  Twenty — he  was  plus  sixty-three  at  the 
end — that  my  play  that  night  had  been  excep- 
tional. He  said  that  he  had  heard  of  cases  simi- 
lar. I  left  him  talking  volubly  to  the  committee. 
He  was  not  a  nice  man  at  all. 

After  that  I  did  not  care  to  win;  and  that  of 
course  was  fatal.  The  less  I  tried,  the  more 
impossible  it  seemed  for  me  to  do  wrong.  I  was 
left  in  at  the  last  with  a  man  from  another  hotel. 
But  for  that  I  am  convinced  I  should  have  car- 
ried off  the  handicap.  Our  hotel  didn't,  anyhow, 
want  the  other  hotel  to  win.  So  they  gathered 
round  me,  and  offered  me  sound  advice,  and 
begged  me  to  be  careful;  with  the  natural  result 
that  I  went  back  to  my  usual  form  quite  sud- 
denly. 

Never  before  or  since  have  I  played  as  I  played 
that  week.  But  it  showed  me  what  I  could  do. 
I  shall  get  a  new  table,  with  proper  pockets  this 
time.  There  is  something  wrong  about  our 
pockets.  The  balls  go  into  them  and  then  come 
out  again.  You  would  think  they  had  seen  some- 
thing there  to  frighten  them.  They  come  out 
trembling  and  hold  on  to  the  cushion. 


1 8  THEY  AND  I 

I  shall  also  get  a  new  red  ball.  I  fancy  it  must 
be  a  very  old  ball,  our  red.  It  seems  to  me  to  be 
always  tired. 

"  The  billiard-room,"  I  said  to  Dick,  "  I  see 
my  way  to  easily  enough.  Adding  another  ten  feet 
to  what  is  now  the  dairy  will  give  us  twenty- 
eight  by  twenty.  I  am  hopeful  that  will  be  suffi- 
cient even  for  your  friend  Malooney.  The  draw- 
ing-room is  too  small  to  be  of  any  use.  I  may 
decide — as  Robina  has  suggested — to  'throw  it 
into  the  hall.'  But  the  stairs  will  remain.  For 
dancing,  private  theatricals — things  to  keep  you 
children  out  of  mischief — I  have  an  idea  that 
I  will  explain  to  you  fully  later  on.  The 
kitchen " 

"  Can  I  have  a  room  to  myself?  "  asked  Veron- 
ica. 

Veronica  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  staring  into 
the  fire,  her  chin  supported  by  her  hand.  Veron- 
ica, in  those  rare  moments  when  she  is  resting 
from  her  troubles,  wears  a  holy,  far-away  expres- 
sion apt  to  mislead  the  stranger.  Governesses, 
new  to  her,  have  their  doubts  whether  on  these 
occasions  they  are  justified  in  dragging  her  back 
to  discuss  mere  dates  and  tables.     Poets  who  are 


THEY  AND  I  19 

friends  of  mine,  coming  unexpectedly  upon  Veron- 
ica standing  by  the  window,  gazing  upward  at 
the  evening  star,  have  thought  it  was  a  vision, 
until  they  got  closer  and  found  that  she  was  suck- 
ing peppermints. 

"  I  should  so  like  to  have  a  room  all  to  myself," 
added  Veronica. 

"  It  would  be  a  room!  "  commented  Robin. 

"  It  wouldn't  have  your  hairpins  sticking  up  all 
over  the  bed,  anyhow,"  murmured  Veronica 
dreamily. 

"  I  like  that!  "  said  Robin;  "  why—" 

"  You're  harder  than  I  am,"  said  Veronica. 

"  I  should  wish  you  to  have  a  room,  Veronica," 
I  said.  "  My  fear  is  that  in  place  of  one  untidy 
bedroom  in  the  house — a  room  that  makes  me 
shudder  every  time  I  see  it  through  the  open  door; 
and  the  door,  in  spite  of  all  I  can  say,  generally 
is  wide  open " 

"  I'm  not  untidy,"  said  Robin,  "  not  really. 
I  know  where  everything  is  in  the  dark — if  peo- 
ple would  only  leave  them  alone." 

"  You  are.  You're  about  the  most  untidy  girl 
I  know,"  said  Dick. 

"I'm  not,"  said  Robin;  "you  don't  see  other 


20  THEY  AND  I 

girls'  rooms.  Look  at  yours  at  Cambridge.  Ma- 
looney  told  us  you'd  had  a  fire,  and  we  all  be- 
lieved him  at  first." 

"  When  a  man's  working "  said  Dick. 

II  He  must  have  an  orderly  place  to  work  in," 
suggested  Robin. 

Dick  sighed.  "  It's  never  any  good  talking  to 
you,"  said  Dick.  "  You  don't  even  see  your  own 
faults." 

"I  can,"  said  Robin;  "I  see  them  more  than 
any  one.    All  I  claim  is  justice." 

"  Show  me,  Veronica,"  I  said,  "  that  you  are 
worthy  to  possess  a  room.  At  present  you  ap- 
pear to  regard  the  whole  house  as  your  room.  I 
find  your  gaiters  on  the  croquet  lawn.  A  por- 
tion of  your  costume — an  article  that  anyone  pos- 
sessed of  the  true  feelings  of  a  lady  would  desire 
to  keep  hidden  from  the  world — is  discovered 
waving  from  the  staircase  window." 

II I  put  it  out  to  be  mended,"  explained  Veron- 
ica. 

11  You  opened  the  door  and  flung  it  out.  I  told 
you  of  it  at  the  time,"  said  Robin.  "  You  do 
the  same  with  your  boots." 


THEY  AND  I  21 

"  You  are  too  high-spirited  for  your  size," 
explained  Dick  to  her.  "Try  to  be  less  dash- 
ing." 

"  I  could  also  wish,  Veronica,"  I  continued, 
"  that  you  shed  your  back  comb  less  easily,  or  at 
least  that  you  knew  when  you  had  shed  it.  As 
for  your  gloves — well,  hunting  your  gloves  has 
come  to  be  our  leading  winter  sport." 

"  People  look  in  such  funny  places  for  them," 
said  Veronica. 

"  Granted.  But  be  just,  Veronica,"  I  pleaded. 
"  Admit  that  it  is  in  funny  places  we  occasionally 
find  them.  When  looking  for  your  things  one 
learns,  Veronica,  never  to  despair.  So  long  as 
there  remains  a  corner  unexplored  inside  or  out- 
side the  house,  within  the  half-mile  radius,  hope 
need  not  be  abandoned." 

Veronica  was  still  gazing  dreamily  into  the  fire. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Veronica,   "  it's  reditty." 

"It's  what?"  I  said. 

"  She  means  heredity,"  suggested  Dick — 
"cheeky  young  beggar!  I  wonder  you  let  her 
talk  to  you  the  way  she  does." 

"  Besides,"    added    Robin,    "  as   I    am   always 


22  THEY  AND  I 

explaining  to  you,  Pa  is  a  literary  man.  With 
him  it  is  part  of  his  temperament." 

"  It's  hard  on  us  children,"  said  Veronica. 

We  were  all  agreed — with  the  exception  of 
Veronica — that  it  was  time  Veronica  went  to  bed. 
As  chairman  I  took  it  upon  myself  to  closure  the 
debate. 


CHAPTER  II 

"  Do  you  mean,  Governor,  that  you  have  actually 
bought  the  house?  "  demanded  Dick,  "  or  are  we 
only  talking  about  it?  " 

11  This  time,  Dick,"  I  answered,  "  I  have  done 
it." 

Dick  looked  serious.  "  Is  it  what  you 
wanted?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  Dick,"  I  replied,  "it  is  not  what  I 
wanted.  I  wanted  an  old-fashioned,  picturesque, 
rambling  sort  of  a  place,  all  gables  and  ivy  and 
oriel  windows." 

"You  are  mixing  things  up,"  Dick  inter- 
rupted, "  gables  and  oriel  windows  don't  go  to- 
gether." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Dick,"  I  corrected  him, 
"  in  the  house  I  wanted,  they  do.  It  is  the  style 
of  house  you  find  in  the  Christmas  number.  I 
have  never  seen  it  anywhere  else,  but  I  took  a 
fancy  to  it  from  the  first.  It  is  not  too  far  from 
the  church,  and  it  lights  up  well  at  night.  '  One 
of  these  days,'  I  used  to  say  to  myself  when  a 

23 


24  THEY  AND  I 

boy,  '  I'll  be  a  clever  man  and  live  in  a  house  just 
like  that.'     It  was  my  dream." 

"And  what  is  this  place  like?"  demanded 
Robin,  "  this  place  you  have  bought." 

"  The  agent,"  I  explained,  "  claims  for  it  that 
it  is  capable  of  improvement.  I  asked  him  to 
what  school  of  architecture  he  would  say  it  be- 
longed; he  said  he  thought  that  it  must  have  been 
a  local  school,  and  pointed  out — what  seems  to 
be  the  truth — that  nowadays  they  do  not  build 
such  houses." 

"Near  to  the  river?"  demanded  Dick. 

"  Well,  by  the  road,"  I  answered,  "  I  daresay 
it  may  be  a  couple  of  miles." 

"And  by  the  shortest  way?"  questioned  Dick. 

"That  is  the  shortest  way,"  I  explained; 
"  there's  a  prettier  way  through  the  woods,  but 
that  is  about  three  miles  and  a  half." 

"  But  we  had  decided  it  was  to  be  near  the 
river,"  said  Robin. 

"  We  also  decided,"  I  replied,  "  that  it  was  to 
be  on  sandy  soil,  with  a  southwest  aspect.  Only 
one  thing  in  this  house  has  a  southwest  aspect 
and  that's  the  back  door.  I  asked  the  agent  about 
the  sand.     He  advised  me,  if  I  wanted  it  in  any 


THEY  AND  I  25 

quantity,  to  get  an  estimate  from  the  Railway 
Company.  I  wanted  it  on  a  hill.  It  is  on  a  hill, 
with  a  bigger  hill  in  front  of  it.  I  didn't  want 
that  other  hill.  I  wanted  an  uninterrupted  view 
of  the  southern  half  of  England.  I  wanted  to 
take  people  out  on  the  step,  and  cram  them  with 
stories  about  our  being  able  on  clear  days  to  see 
the  Bristol  Channel.  They  might  not  have  be- 
lieved me,  but  without  that  hill  I  could  have  stuck 
to  it,  and  they  could  not  have  been  certain — not 
dead  certain — I  was  lying. 

"  Personally,  I  should  have  liked  a  house  where 
something  had  happened.  I  should  have  liked, 
myself,  a  blood-stain — not  a  fussy  blood-stain, 
a  neat  unobtrusive  blood-stain  that  would  have 
been  content,  most  of  its  time,  to  remain  hidden 
under  the  mat,  shown  only  occasionally  as  a  treat 
to  visitors.  I  had  hopes  even  of  a  ghost.  I  don't 
mean  one  of  those  noisy  ghosts  that  doesn't  seem 
to  know  it  is  dead.  A  lady  ghost  would  have  been 
my  fancy,  a  gentle  ghost  with  quiet,  pretty  ways. 
This  house — well  it  is  such  a  sensible-looking 
house,  that  is  my  chief  objection  to  it.  It  has 
got  an  echo.  If  you  go  to  the  end  of  the  garden 
and  shout  at  it  very  loudly,  it  answers  you  back. 


26  THEY  AND  I 

This  is  the  only  bit  of  fun  you  can  have  with  it. 
Even  then  it  answers  you  in  such  a  tone  you 
feel  it  thinks  the  whole  thing  silly — is  doing  it 
merely  to  humour  you.  It  is  one  of  those  houses 
that  always  seems  to  be  thinking  of  its  rates  and 
taxes." 

"Any  reason  at  all  for  your  having  brought 
it?"  asked  Dick. 

"  Yes,  Dick,"  I  answered.  "  We  are  all  of  us 
tired  of  this  suburb.  We  want  to  live  in  the 
country  and  be  good.  To  live  in  the  country  with 
any  comfort  it  is  necessary  to  have  a  house  there. 
This  being  admitted,  it  follows  we  must  either 
build  a  house  or  buy  one.  I  would  rather  not 
build  a  house.  Talboys  built  himself  a  house. 
You  know  Talboys.  When  I  first  met  him,  be- 
fore he  started  building,  he  was  a  cheerful  soul 
with  a  kindly  word  for  everyone.  The  builder 
assures  him  that  in  another  twenty  years,  when 
the  colour  has  had  time  to  tone  down,  his  house 
will  be  a  picture.  At  present  it  makes  him  bilious, 
the  mere  sight  of  it.  Year  by  year,  they  tell  him, 
as  the  dampness  wears  itself  away,  he  will  suffer 
less  and  less  from  rheumatism,  ague,  and  lum- 
bago.    He  has  a  hedge  round  the  garden;  it  is 


THEY  AND  I  27 

eighteen  inches  high.  To  keep  the  boys  out  he 
has  put  up  barbed-wire  fencing.  But  wire  fenc- 
ing affords  no  real  privacy.  When  the  Talboys 
are  taking  coffee  on  the  lawn,  there  is  generally 
a  crowd  from  the  village  watching  them.  There 
are  trees  in  the  garden;  you  know  they  are  trees 
— there  is  a  label  tied  to  each  one  telling  you  what 
sort  of  a  tree  it  is.  For  the  moment  there  is  a 
similarity  about  them.  Thirty  years  hence,  Tal- 
boys estimates,  they  will  afford  him  shade  and 
comfort;  but  by  that  time  he  hopes  to  be  dead.  I 
want  a  house  that  has  got  over  all  its  troubles; 
I  don't  want  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  bringing 
up  a  young  and  inexperienced  house." 

11  But  why  this  particular  house?  "  urged  Robin, 
"  if,  as  you  say,  it  is  not  the  house  you  wanted." 

"  Because,  my  dear  girl,"  I  answered,  "  it  is 
less  unlike  the  house  I  wanted  than  other  houses 
I  have  seen.  When  we  are  young  we  make  up 
our  minds  to  try  and  get  what  we  want ;  when  we 
have  arrived  at  years  of  discretion  we  decide  to 
try  and  want  what  we  can  get.  It  saves  time. 
During  the  last  two  years  I  have  seen  about  sixty 
houses,  and  out  of  the  lot  there  was  only  one  that 
was  really  the  house  I  wanted.     Hitherto  I  have 


28  THEY  AND  I 

kept  the  story  to  myself.  Even  now,  thinking 
about  it  irritates  me.  It  was  not  an  agent  who 
told  me  of  it.  I  met  a  man  by  chance  in  a  railway 
carriage.  He  had  a  black  eye.  If  ever  I  meet 
him  again  I'll  give  him  another.  He  accounted 
for  it  by  explaining  that  he  had  had  trouble  with 
a  golf  ball,  and  at  the  time  I  believed  him.  I 
mentioned  to  him  in  conversation  I  was  looking 
for  a  house.  He  described  this  place  to  me,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  hours  before  the  train  stopped  at 
a  station.  When  it  did  I  got  out  and  took  the 
next  train  back.  I  did  not  even  wait  for  lunch. 
I  had  my  bicycle  with  me,  and  I  went  straight 
there.  It  was — well,  it  was  the  house  I  wanted. 
If  it  had  vanished  suddenly,  and  I  had  found  my- 
self in  bed,  the  whole  thing  would  have  seemed 
more  reasonable.  The  proprietor  opened  the  door 
to  me  himself.  He  had  the  bearing  of  a  retired 
military  man.  It  was  afterwards  I  learnt  he  was 
the  proprietor. 

11 1  said,  '  Good  afternoon;  if  it  is  not  troubling 
you,  I  would  like  to  look  over  the  house.'  We 
were  standing  in  the  oak-panelled  hall.  I  no- 
ticed the  carved  staircase  about  which  the  man  in 
the  train  had  told  me,  also  the  Tudor  fireplaces. 


THEY  AND  I  29 

That  is  all  I  had  time  to  notice.  The  next  mo- 
ment I  was  lying  on  my  back  in  the  middle  of  the 
gravel  with  the  door  shut.  I  looked  up.  I  saw 
the  old  maniac's  head  sticking  out  of  a  little  win- 
dow. It  was  an  evil  face.  He  had  a  gun  in  his 
hand. 

"  '  I'm  going  to  count  twenty,'  he  said.  '  If 
you  are  not  the  other  side  of  the  gate  by  then,  I 
shoot.' 

"  I  ran  over  the  figures  myself  on  my  way  to 
the  gate.     I  made  it  eighteen. 

"  I  had  an  hour  to  wait  for  the  train.  I  talked 
the  matter  over  with  the  station-master. 

11 '  Yes,'  he  said,  '  there'll  be  trouble  up  there 
one  of  these  days.' 

"  I  said,  '  It  seems  to  me  to  have  begun.' 

"  He  said,  '  It's  the  Indian  sun.  It  gets  into 
their  heads.  We  have  one  or  two  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. They  are  quiet  enough  till  something 
happens.' 

"'If  I'd  been  two  seconds  longer,'  I  said,  'I 
believe  he'd  have  done  it.' 

"  '  It's  a  taking  house,'  said  the  station-master; 
1  not  too  big  and  not  too  little.  It's  the  sort  o£ 
house  people  seem  to  be  looking  for,' 


30  THEY  AND  I 

"  '  I  don't  envy,'  I  said,  '  the  next  person  that 
finds  it.' 

"  '  He  settled  himself  down  here,'  said  the  sta- 
tion-master, '  about  ten  years  ago.  Since  then,  if 
one  person  has  offered  to  take  the  house  off  his 
hands,  I  suppose  a  thousand  have.  At  first  he 
would  laugh  at  them  good-temperedly — explain 
to  them  that  his  idea  was  to  live  there  himself,  in 
peace  and  quietness,  till  he  died.  Two  out  of 
every  three  of  them  would  express  their  willing- 
ness to  wait  for  that,  and  suggest  some  arrange- 
ment by  which  they  might  enter  into  possession, 
say  a  week  after  the  funeral.  The  last  few  months 
it  has  been  worse  than  ever.  I  reckon  you're  about 
the  eighth  that  has  been  up  there  this  week,  and 
to-day  only  Thursday.  There's  something  to  be 
said,  you  know,  for  the  old  man.' " 

11  And  did  he?  "  asked  Dick,  "  did  he  shoot  the 
next  party  that  came  along?  " 

'"  Don't  be  so  silly,  Dick,"  said  Robin;  "it's 
a  story.    Tell  us  another,  Pa." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Robina,  by  a 
story,"  I  said.     "  If  you  mean  to  imply " 

Robina  said  she  didn't;  but  I  know  quite  well 
she  did.    Because  I  am  an  author,  and  have  to  tell 


THEY  AND  I  31 

stories  for  my  living,  people  think  I  don't  know 
any  truth.  It  is  vexing  enough  to  be  doubted 
when  one  is  exaggerating;  to  have  sneers  flung  at 
one  by  one's  kith  and  kin  when  one  is  struggling 
to  confine  one's  self  to  bald,  bare  narrative — well, 
where  .is  the  inducement  to  be  truthful?  There 
are  times  when  I  almost  say  to  myself  that  I  will 
never  tell  the  truth  again. 

"  As  it  happens,"  I  said,  "  the  story  is  true,  in 
many  places.  I  pass  over  your  indifference  to  the 
risk  I  ran;  though  a  nice  girl  at  the  point  where 
the  gun  was  mentioned  would  have  expressed 
alarm.  Anyhow,  at  the  end  you  might  have  said 
something  more  sympathetic  than  merely,  '  Tell 
us  another.'  He  did  not  shoot  the  next  party  that 
arrived,  for  the  reason  that  the  very  next  day 
his  wife,  alarmed  at  what  had  happened,  went 
up  to  London  and  consulted  an  expert — none  too 
soon,  as  it  turned  out.  The  poor  old  fellow  died 
six  months  later  in  a  private  lunatic  asylum;  I 
had  it  from  the  station-master  on  passing  through 
the  junction  again  this  spring.  The  house  fell 
into  the  possession  of  his  nephew,  who  is  living 
in  it  now.  He  is  a  youngish  man  with  a  large 
family,  and  people  have  learnt  that  the  place  is 


32  THEY  AND  I 

not  for  sale.  It  seems  to  me  rather  a  sad  story. 
The  Indian  sun,  as  the  station-master  thinks,  may- 
have  started  the  trouble;  but  the  end  was  undoubt- 
edly hastened  by  the  annoyance  to  which  the  un- 
fortunate gentleman  had  been  subjected;  and  I 
myself  might  have  been  shot.  The  only  thing 
that  comforts  me  is  thinking  of  that  fool's  black 
eye — the  fool  that  sent  me  there." 

11  And  none  of  the  other  houses,"  suggested 
Dick,  "  were  any  good  at  all?  " 

"  There  were  drawbacks,  Dick,"  I  explained. 
"There  was  a  house  in  Essex;  it  was  one  of  the 
first  your  mother  and  I  inspected.  I  nearly  shed 
tears  of  joy  when  I  read  the  advertisement.  It 
had  once  been  a  priory.  Queen  Elizabeth  had 
slept  there  on  her  way  to  Greenwich.  A  photo- 
graph of  the  house  accompanied  the  advertise- 
ment. I  should  not  have  believed  the  thing  had 
it  been  a  picture.  It  was  under  twelve  miles  from 
Charing  Cross.  The  owner,  it  was  stated,  was 
open  to  offers." 

"  All  humbug,  I  suppose,"  suggested  Dick. 

"The  advertisement,  if  anything,"  I  replied, 
"  had  under-estimated  the  attractiveness  of  that 
house.     All  I  blame  the  advertisement  for  is  that 


THEY  AND  I  33 

it  did  not  mention  other  things.  It  did  not  men- 
tion, for  instance,  that  since  Queen  Elizabeth's 
time  the  neighbourhood  had  changed.  It  did  not 
mention  that  the  entrance  was  between  a  public 
house  one  side  of  the  gate  and  a  fried-fish  shop 
on  the  other;  that  the  Great  Eastern  Railway 
Company  had  established  a  goods  depot  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden;  that  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows looked  out  on  extensive  chemical  works, 
and  the  dining-room  windows,  which  were  round 
the  corner,  on  a  stonemason's  yard.  The  house 
itself  was  a  dream." 

"  But  what  is  the  sense  of  it?  "  demanded  Dick. 
"What  do  house  agents  think  is  the  good  of 
it?  Do  they  think  people  likely  to  take  a  house 
after  reading  the  advertisement  without  ever  go- 
ing to  see  it?  " 

"  I  asked  an  agent  once  that  very  question," 
I  replied.  "  He  said  they  did  it  first  and  foremost 
to  keep  up  the  spirits  of  the  owner — the  man  who 
wanted  to  sell  the  house.  He  said  that  when  a 
man  was  trying  to  part  with  a  house  he  had  to 
listen  to  so  much  abuse  of  it  from  people  who 
came  to  see  it  that  if  somebody  did  not  stick  up 
for  the  house — say  all  that  could  be  said  for  it, 


34  THEY  AND  I 

and  gloss  over  its  defects — he  would  end  by  be- 
coming so  ashamed  of  it  he  would  want  to  give 
it  away,  or  blow  it  up  with  dynamite.  He  said 
that  reading  the  advertisement  in  the  agent's  cata- 
logue was  the  only  thing  that  reconciled  him  to 
being  the  owner  of  the  house.  He  said  one  client 
of  his  had  been  trying  to  sell  his  house  for  years 
— until  one  day  in  the  office  he  read  by  chance  the 
agent's  description  of  it.  Upon  which  he  went 
straight  home,  took  down  the  board,  and  has 
lived  there  contentedly  ever  since.  From  that 
point  of  view  there  is  reason  in  the  system;  but 
for  the  house-hunter  it  works  badly. 

"  One  agent  sent  me  a  day's  journey  to  see  a 
house  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  brickfield,  with 
a  view  of  the  Grand  Junction  Canal.  I  asked 
him  where  was  the  river  he  had  mentioned.  He 
explained  it  was  the  other  side  of  the  canal,  but 
on  a  lower  level;  that  was  the  only  reason  why 
from  the  house  you  couldn't  see  it.  I  asked  him 
for  his  picturesque  scenery.  He  explained  it  was 
farther  on,  round  the  bend.  He  seemed  to  think 
me  unreasonable,  expecting  to  find  everything  I 
wanted  just  outside  the  front  door.  He  suggested 
my  shutting  out  the  brickfield — if  I   didn't  like 


THEY  AND  I  35 

the  brickfield — with  trees.  He  suggested  the 
eucalyptus-tree.  He  said  it  was  a  rapid  grower. 
He  also  told  me  that  it  yielded  gum. 

"  Another  house  I  travelled  down  in  Dorset- 
shire to  see.  It  contained,  according  to  the  ad- 
vertisement, '  perhaps  the  most  perfect  specimen 
of  Norman  arch  extant  in  Southern  England.' 
It  was  to  be  found  mentioned  in  Dugdale,  and 
dated  from  the  thirteenth  century.  I  don't  quite 
know  what  I  expected.  I  argued  to  myself  that 
there  must  have  been  ruffians  of  only  moderate 
means  even  in  those  days.  Here  and  there  some 
robber  baron  who  had  struck  a  poor  line  of  coun- 
try would  have  had  to  be  content  with  a  homely 
little  castle.  A  few  such,  hidden  away  in  unfre- 
quented districts,  had  escaped  destruction.  More 
civilised  descendants  had  adapted  them  to  later 
requirements.  I  had  in  my  mind,  before  the  train 
reached  Dorchester,  something  between  a  minia- 
ture Tower  of  London  and  a  mediaeval  edition 
of  Ann  Hathaway's  cottage  at  Stratford.  I  pic- 
tured dungeons  and  a  drawbridge,  perhaps  a  se- 
cret passage.  Lamchick  has  a  secret  passage, 
leading  from  behind  a  sort  of  portrait  in  the  din- 
ing-room to  the  back  of  the  kitchen  chimney.  They 


36  THEY  AND  I 

use  it  for  a  linen  closet.  It  seems  to  me  a  pity. 
Of  course  originally  it  went  on  farther.  The 
vicar,  who  is  a  bit  of  an  antiquarian,  believes  it 
comes  out  somewhere  in  the  churchyard.  I  tell 
Lamchick  he  ought  to  have  it  opened  up,  but 
his  wife  doesn't  want  it  touched.  She  seems  to 
think  it  just  right  as  it  is.  I  have  always  had  a 
fancy  for  a  secret  passage.  I  decided  I  would 
have  the  drawbridge  repaired  and  made  practica- 
ble. Flanked  on  each  side  with  flowers  in  tubs, 
it  would  have  been  a  novel  and  picturesque  ap- 
proach." 

"Was  there  a  drawbridge?"  asked  Dick. 

"  There  was  no  drawbridge,"  I  explained. 
"  The  entrance  to  the  house  was  through  what 
the  caretaker  called  the  conservatory.  It  was  not 
the  sort  of  house  that  goes  with  a  drawbridge." 

"Then  what  about  the  Norman  arches?" 
argued  Dick. 

"Not  arches,"  I  corrected  him;  "Arch.  The 
Norman  arch  was  downstairs  in  the  kitchen.  It 
was  the  kitchen,  that  had  been  built  in  the  thir- 
teenth century — and  had  not  had  much  done  to 
it  since,  apparently.  Originally,  I  should  say,  it 
had  been  the  torture  chamber;  it  gave  you  that 


THEY  AND  I  37 

idea.  I  think  your  mother  would  have  raised 
objections  to  the  kitchen — anyhow,  when  she  came 
to  think  of  the  cook.  It  would  have  been  neces- 
sary to  put  it  to  the  woman  before  engaging  her: 

"  '  You  don't  mind  cooking  in  a  dungeon  in 
the  dark,  do  you  ?  ' 

"  Some  cooks  would.  The  rest  of  the  house 
was  what  I  should  describe  as  present-day  mixed 
style.  The  last  tenant  but  one  had  thrown  out 
a  bathroom  in  corrugated  iron. 

"  Then  there  was  a  house  in  Berkshire  that  I 
took  your  mother  to  see,  with  a  trout  stream 
running  through  the  grounds.  I  imagined  my- 
self going  out  after  lunch,  catching  trout  for  din- 
ner; inviting  swagger  friends  down  to  'my  little 
place  in  Berkshire  '  for  a  few  days'  trout-fishing. 
There  is  a  man  I  once  knew  who  is  now  a  baro- 
net. He  used  to  be  keen  on  fishing.  I  thought 
maybe  I'd  get  him.  It  would  have  looked  well 
in  the  Literary  Gossip  column :  '  Among  the 
other  distinguished  guests ' — you  know  the  sort 
of  thing.  I  had  the  paragraph  ready  in  my  mind. 
The  wonder  is  I  didn't  buy  a  rod." 

"Wasn't  there  any  trout  stream?"  questioned 
Robin. 


38  THEY  AND  I 

"There  was  a  stream,"  I  answered;  "if  any- 
thing, too  much  stream.  The  stream  was  the 
first  thing  your  mother  noticed.  She  noticed  it 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  we  came  to  it — be- 
fore we  knew  it  was  the  stream.  We  drove  back 
to  the  town,  and  she  bought  a  smelling-bottle, 
the  larger  size. 

"  It  gave  your  mother  a  headache,  that  stream, 
and  made  me  mad.  The  agent's  office  was  op- 
posite the  station.  I  allowed  myself  half  an  hour 
on  my  way  back  to  tell  him  what  I  thought  of 
him,  and  then  I  missed  the  train.  I  could  have 
got  it  in  if  he  had  let  me  talk  all  the  time,  but  he 
would  interrupt.  He  said  it  was  the  people  at  the 
paper-mill — that  he  had  spoken  to  them  about  it 
more  than  once;  he  seemed  to  think  sympathy 
was  all  I  wanted.  He  assured  me,  on  his  word 
as  a  house-agent,  that  it  had  once  been  a  trout 
stream.  The  fact  was  historical.  Isaac  Walton 
had  fished  there — -that  was  prior  to  the  paper  mill. 
He  thought  a  collection  of  trout,  male  and  female, 
might  be  bought  and  placed  in  it;  preference 
being  given  to  some  hardy  breed  of  trout,  accus- 
tomed to  roughing  it.  I  told  him  I  wasn't  look- 
ing for  a  place  where  I  could  play  at  being  Noah; 


THEY  AND  I  39; 

and  left  him,  as  I  explained  to  him,  with  the  in- 
tention of  going  straight  to  my  solicitors  and  in- 
stituting proceedings  against  him  for  talking  like 
a  fool;  and  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  across  to 
his  solicitors  to  commence  proceedings  against  me 
for  libel. 

11 1  suppose  that,  with  myself,  he  thought  bet- 
ter of  it  in  the  end.  But  I'm  tired  of  having  my 
life  turned  into  one  perpetual  first  of  April.  This 
house  that  I  have  bought  is  not  my  heart's  desire, 
but  about  it  there  are  possibilities.  We  will  put 
in  lattice  windows,  and  fuss-up  the  chimneys. 
Maybe  we  will  let  in  a  tablet  over  the  front  door, 
with  a  date — 1553  always  looks  well:  it  is  a  pic- 
turesque figure,  the  old-fashioned  five.  By  the 
time  we  have  done  with  it — for  all  practical  pur- 
poses— it  will  be  a  Tudor  manor-house.  I  have 
always  wanted  an  old  Tudor  manor-house.  There 
is  no  reason,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  why  there  should 
not  be  stories  connected  with  this  house.  Why 
should  not  we  have  a  room  in  which  Somebody 
once  slept?  We  won't  have  Queen  Elizabeth. 
I'm  tired  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Besides,  I  don't 
believe  she'd  have  been  nice.  Why  not  Queen 
Anne?      A   quiet,    gentle   old  lady   from   all   ac- 


4o  THEY  AND  I 

counts,  who  would  not  have  given  trouble.  Or, 
better  still,  Shakespeare.  He  was  constantly  to 
and  fro  between  London  and  Stratford.  It  would 
not  have  been  so  very  much  out  of  his  way.  '  The 
room  where  Shakespeare  slept ! '  Why,  it's  a 
new  idea.  Nobody  ever  seems  to  have  thought 
of  Shakespeare.  There  is  the  four-post  bedstead. 
Your  mother  never  liked  it.  She  will  insist,  it 
harbours  things.  We  might  hang  the  wall  with 
scenes  from  his  plays,  and  have  a  bust  of  the  old 
gentleman  himself  over  the  door.  If  I'm  left 
alone  and  not  worried,  I'll  probably  end  by  be- 
lieving that  he  really  did  sleep  there." 

"What  about  cupboards?"  suggested  Dick. 
"  The  Little  Mother  will  clamour  for  cupboards." 

It  is  unexplainable,  the  average  woman's  pas- 
sion for  cupboards.  In  heaven,  her  first  request, 
I  am  sure,  is  always,  "  Can  I  have  a  cupboard?" 
She  would  keep  her  husband  and  children  in  cup- 
boards if  she  had  her  way:  that  would  be  her  idea 
of  the  perfect  home,  everybody  wrapped  up  with 
a  piece  of  camphor  in  his  or  her  own  proper  cup- 
board. I  knew  a  woman  once  who  was  happy — 
for  a  woman.  She  lived  in  a  house  with  twenty- 
nine  cupboards:  I  think  it  must  have  been  built 


THEY  AND  I  41 

by  a  woman.  They  were  spacious  cupboards, 
many  of  them,  with  doors  in  no  way  different  from 
other  doors.  Visitors  would  wish  each  other  good- 
night and  disappear  with  their  candles  into  cup- 
boards, staggering  out  backwards  the  next  mo- 
ment, looking  scared.  One  poor  gentleman,  this 
woman's  husband  told  me,  having  to  go  down- 
stairs again  for  something  he  had  forgotten,  and 
unable  on  his  return  to  strike  anything  else  but 
cupboards,  lost  heart  and  finished  up  the  night 
in  a  cupboard.  At  breakfast-time  guests  would 
hurry  down,  and  burst  open  cupboard  doors  with 
a  cheery  "  Good-morning."  When  that  woman 
was  out,  nobody  in  that  house  ever  knew  where 
anything  was;  and  when  she  came  home  she  her- 
self only  knew  where  it  ought  to  have  been.  Yet 
once,  when  one  of  those  twenty-nine  cupboards 
had  to  be  cleared  out  temporarily  for  repairs,  she 
never  smiled,  her  husband  told  me,  for  more  than 
three  weeks — not  till  the  workmen  were  out  of 
the  house,  and  that  cupboard  in  working  order 
again.  She  said  it  was  so  confusing,  having  no- 
where to  put  her  things. 

The  average  woman  does  not  want  a  house, 
in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.     What  she 


42  THEY  AND  I 

wants  is  something  made  by  a  genii.  You  have 
found,  as  you  think,  the  ideal  house.  You  show 
her  the  Adam's  fireplace  in  the  drawing-room. 
You  tap  the  wainscoting  of  the  hall  with  your 
umbrella:  "Oak,"  you  impress  upon  her,  "all 
oak."  You  draw  her  attention  to  the  view:  you 
tell  her  the  local  legend.  By  fixing  her  head 
against  the  window-pane  she  can  see  the  tree  on 
which  the  man  was  hanged.  You  dwell  upon 
the  sun-dial;  you  mention  for  a  second  time  the 
Adam's  fireplace. 

11  It's  all  very  nice,"  she  answers,  "  but  where 
are  the  children  going  to  sleep?" 

It  is  so  disheartening. 

If  it  isn't  the  children,  it's  the  water.  She 
wants  water — wants  to  know  where  it  comes  from. 
You  show  her    where  it  comes  from. 

"  What,  out  of  that  nasty  place !  "  she  ex- 
claims. 

She  is  equally  dissatisfied  whether  it  be  drawn 
from  a  well,  or  whether  it  be  water  that  has  fallen 
from  heaven  and  been  stored  in  tanks.  She  has 
no  faith  in  Nature's  water.  A  woman  never 
believes  that  water  can  be  good  that  does  not 
come  from  a  water-works.     Her  idea  appears  to 


THEY  AND  I  43 

be  that  the  Company  makes  it  fresh  every  morn- 
ing from  some  old  family  recipe. 

If  you  do  succeed  in  reconciling  her  to  the 
water,  then  she  feels  sure  that  the  chimneys  smoke; 
they  look  as  if  they  smoked.  Why — as  you  tell 
her — the  chimneys  are  the  best  part  of  the  house. 
You  take  her  outside  and  make  her  look  at  them. 
They  are  genuine  sixteenth-century  chimneys,  with 
carving  on  them.  They  couldn't  smoke.  They 
wouldn't  do  anything  inartistic.  She  says  she  only 
hopes  you  are  right,  and  suggests  cowls,  if  they 
do. 

After  that  she  wants  to  see  the  kitchen — where's 
the  kitchen?  You  don't  know  where  it  is.  You 
don't  bother  about  the  kitchen.  There  must  be  a 
kitchen  of  course.  You  proceed  to  search  for  the 
kitchen.  When  you  find  it  she  is  worried  because 
it  is  the  opposite  end  of  the  house  to  the  dining- 
room.  You  point  out  to  her  the  advantage  of 
being  away  from  the  smell  of  the  cooking.  At 
that  she  gets  personal :  tells  you  that  you  are  the 
first  to  grumble  when  the  dinner  is  cold;  and  in 
her  madness  accuses  the  whole  male  sex  of  being 
impractical.  The  mere  sight  of  an  empty  house 
makes  a  woman  fretful. 


44  THEY  AND  I 

Of  course  the  stove  is  wrong.  The  kitchen 
stove  always  is  wrong.  You  promise  she  shall 
have  a  new  one.  Six  months  later  she  will  want 
the  old  one  back  again:  but  it  would  be  cruel  to 
tell  her  this.  The  promise  of  that  new  stove 
comforts  her.  The  woman  never  loses  hope  that 
one  day  it  will  come — the  all-satisfying  kitchen 
stove,  the  stove  of  her  girlish  dreams. 

The  question  of  the  stove  settled,  you  imagine 
.  you  have  silenced  all  opposition.  At  once  she  be- 
gins to  talk  about  things  that  nobody  but  a  woman 
or  a  sanitary  inspector  can  talk  about  without 
blushing. 

It  calls  for  tact,  getting  a  woman  into  a  new 
house.     She  is  nervous,  suspicious. 

11 1  am  glad,  my  dear  Dick,"  I  answered;  "  that 
you  have  mentioned  cupboards.  It  is  with  cup- 
boards that  I  am  hoping  to  lure  your  mother. 
The  cupboards,  from  her  point  of  view,  will  be 
the  one  bright  spot;  there  are  fourteen  of  them. 
I  am  trusting  to  cupboards  to  tide  me  over  many 
things.  I  shall  want  you  to  come  with  me,  Dick. 
Whenever  your  mother  begins  a  sentence  with 
'  But  now  to  be  practical,  dear,'  I  want  you  to 
murmur  something  about  cupboards — not  irritat- 


THEY  AND  I  45 

ingly  as  if  it  had  been  prearranged:  have  a  little 
gumption." 

"Will  there  be  room  for  a  tennis  court?"  de- 
manded Dick. 

"  An  excellent  tennis  court  already  exists,"  I  in- 
formed him.  "  I  have  also  purchased  the  ad- 
joining paddock.  We  shall  be  able  to  keep  our 
own  cow.    Maybe  we'll  breed  horses." 

"We  might  have  a  croquet  lawn,"  suggested 
Robin. 

"  We  might  easily  have  a  croquet  lawn,"  I 
agreed.  "  On  a  full-sized  lawn  I  believe  Veron- 
ica might  be  taught  to  play.  There  are  natures 
that  demand  space.  On  a  full-sized  lawn,  pro- 
tected by  a  stout  iron  border,  less  time  might  be 
wasted  exploring  the  surrounding  scenery  for 
Veronica's  lost  ball." 

"  No  chance  of  a  golf  links  anywhere  in  the 
neighbourhood?"  feared  Dick. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure,"  I  answered.  "  Barely  a 
mile  away  there  is  a  pretty  piece  of  gorse  land 
that  appears  to  be  no  good  to  anyone.  I  dare- 
say for  a  reasonable  offer " 

"  I  say,  when  will  this  show  be  ready?  "  inter- 
rupted Dick. 


46  THEY  AND  I 

"  I  propose  beginning  the  alterations  at  once," 
I  explained.  "  By  luck  there  happens  to  be  a 
gamekeeper's  cottage  vacant  and  within  distance. 
The  agent  is  going  to  get  me  the  use  of  it  for  a 
year — a  primitive  little  place,  but  charmingly  situ- 
ated on  the  edge  of  a  wood.  I  shall  furnish  a 
couple  of  rooms;  and  for  part  of  every  week  I 
shall  make  a  point  of  being  down  there,  superin- 
tending. I  have  always  been  considered  good  at 
superintending.  My  poor  father  used  to  say  it 
was  the  only  work  I  seemed  to  take  an  interest  in. 
By  being  on  the  spot  to  hurry  everybody  on  I 
hope  to  have  the  '  show,'  as  you  term  it,  ready  by 
the  spring." 

"  I  shall  never  marry,"  said  Robin. 

"  Don't  be  so  easily  discouraged,"  advised  Dick; 
"you  are  still  young." 

"  I  don't  ever  want  to  get  married,"  continued 
Robin.  "  I  should  only  quarrel  with  my  husband, 
if  I  did.  And  Dick  will  never  do  anything — not 
with  his  head." 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  am  dull,"  I  pleaded,  "  but 
what  is  the  connection  between  this  house,  your 
quarrels  with  your  husband  if  you  ever  get  one, 
and  Dick's  head?" 


THEY  AND  I  47 

By  way  of  explanation,  Robin  sprang  to  the 
ground,  and  before  he  could  stop  her  had  flung 
her  arms  around  Dick's  neck. 

"  We  can't  help  it,  Dick  dear,"  she  told  him. 
"  Clever  parents  always  have  duffing  children. 
But  we'll  be  of  some  use  in  the  world,  after  all, 
you  and  I." 

The  idea  was  that  Dick,  when  he  had  finished 
failing  in  examinations,  should  go  out  to  Canada 
and  start  a  farm,  taking  Robin  with  him.  They 
would  breed  cattle,  and  gallop  over  the  prairies, 
and  camp  out  in  the  primeval  forest,  and  slide 
about  on  snow-shoes,  and  carry  canoes  on  their 
backs,  and  shoot  rapids,  and  stalk  things — so  far 
as  I  could  gather,  have  a  sort  of  everlasting  Buf- 
falo-Bill's show  all  to  themselves.  How  and 
when  the  farm  work  was  to  get  itself  done  was 
not  at  all  clear.  The  Little  Mother  and  myself 
were  to  end  our  days  with  them.  We  were  to  sit 
about  in  the  sun  for  a  time,  and  then  pass  peace- 
fully away.  Robin  shed  a  few  tears  at  this  point, 
but  regained  her  spirits,  thinking  of  Veronica  who 
was  to  be  lured  out  on  a  visit  and  married  to  some 
true-hearted  yeoman :  which  is  not  at  present  Ver- 
onica's  ambition.      Veronica's   conviction   is   that 


48  THEY  AND  I 

she  would  look  well  in  a  coronet:  her  own  idea  is 
something  in  the  ducal  line.  Robina  talked  for 
about  ten  minutes.  By  the  time  she  had  done 
she  had  persuaded  Dick  that  life  in  the  back- 
woods of  Canada  had  been  his  dream  from  in- 
fancy.    She  is  that  sort  of  girl. 

I  tried  talking  reason,  but  talking  to  Robin 
when  she  has  got  a  notion  in  her  head  is  like  try- 
ing to  fix  a  halter  on  a  two-year-old  colt.  This 
tumble-down,  six-roomed  cottage  was  to  be  the 
saving  of  the  family.  An  ecstatic  look  transfig- 
ured Robina's  face  even  as  she  spoke  of  it.  You 
might  have  fancied  it  a  shrine.  Robina  would  do 
the  cooking.  Robina  would  rise  early  and  milk 
the  cow,  and  gather  the  morning  egg.  We  would 
lead  the  simple  life,  learn  to  fend  for  ourselves. 
It  would  be  so  good  for  Veronica.  The  higher 
education  could  wait;  let  the  higher  ideals  have  a 
chance.  Veronica  would  make  the  beds,  dust  the 
rooms.  In  the  evening  Veronica,  her  little  basket 
by  her  side,  would  sit  and  sew  while  I  talked,  tell- 
ing them  things,  and  Robina  moved  softly  to  and 
fro  about  her  work,  the  household  fairy.  The 
Little  Mother,  whenever  strong  enough,  would 
come  to  us.  We  would  hover  round  her,  tending 
her    with    loving    hands.      The    English    farmer 


THEY  AND  I  49 

must  know  something,  in  spite  of  all  that  is  said. 
Dick  could  arrange  for  lessons  in  practical  farm- 
ing. She  did  not  say  it  crudely;  but  hinted  that, 
surrounded  by  example,  even  I  might  come  to 
take  an  interest  in  honest  labour,  might  end  by 
learning  to  do  something  useful. 

Robina  talked,  I  should  say,  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  By  the  time  she  had  done,  it  appeared 
to  me  rather  a  beautiful  idea.  Dick's  vacation 
had  just  commenced.  For  the  next  three  months 
there  would  be  nothing  else  for  him  to  do  but — < 
to  employ  his  own  expressive  phrase — "  rot 
round."  In  any  event,  it  would  be  keeping  him 
out  of  mischief.  Veronica's  governess  was  leav- 
ing. Veronica's  governess  generally  does  leave 
at  the  end  of  about  a  year.  I  think  sometimes 
of  advertising  for  a  lady  without  a  conscience. 
At  the  end  of  a  year,  they  explain  to  me  that 
their  conscience  will  not  allow  them  to  remain 
longer;  they  do  not  feel  they  are  earning  their 
salary.  It  is  not  that  the  child  is  not  a  dear  child, 
it  is  not  that  she  is  stupid.  Simply  it  is — as  a 
German  lady  to  whom  Dick  had  been  giving  what 
he  called  finishing  lessons  in  English,  once  put  it 
— that  she  does  not  seem  to  be  "  taking  any." 
Her   mother's   idea    is    that    it    is    "  sinking  in." 


$o  THEY  AND  I 

Perhaps  if  we  allowed  Veronica  to  lie  fallow  for 
a  while,  something  might  show  itself.  Robina, 
speaking  for  herself,  held  that  a  period  of  quiet 
usefulness,  away  from  the  society  of  other  silly 
girls  and  sillier  boys,  would  result  in  her  becoming 
a  sensible  woman.  It  is  not  often  that  Robina's 
yearnings  take  this  direction:  to  thwart  them, 
when  they  did,  seemed  wrong. 

We  had  some  difficulty  with  the  Little  Mother. 
That  these  three  babies  of  hers  will  ever  be  men 
and  women  capable  of  running  a  six-roomed  cot- 
tage appears  to  the  Little  Mother  in  the  light  of 
a  fantastic  dream.  I  explained  to  her  that  I 
should  be  there,  at  all  events  for  two  or  three 
days  in  every  week,  to  give  an  eye  to  things.  Even 
that  did  not  content  her.  She  gave  way  eventually 
on  Robina's  solemn  undertaking  that  she  should 
be  telegraphed  for  the  first  time  Veronica  coughed. 

On  Monday  we  packed  a  one-horse  van  with 
what  we  deemed  essential.  Dick  and  Robina 
rode  their  bicycles.  Veronica,  supported  by  as- 
sorted bedding,  made  herself  comfortable  upon 
the  tail-board.  I  followed  down  by  train  on  the 
Wednesday  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  III 

It  was  the  cow  that  woke  me  the  first  morning. 
I  did  not  know  it  was  our  cow — not  at  the  time. 
I  didn't  know  we  had  a  cow.     I  looked  at  my 
watch;  it  was  half-past  two.     I  thought  maybe 
she  would  go  to  sleep  again,  but  her  idea  was  that 
the  day  had  begun.     I  went  to  the  window,  the 
moon  was  at  the  full.     She  was  standing  by  the 
gate,  her  head  inside  the  garden;  I  took  it  her 
anxiety  was  lest  we  might  miss  any  of  it.     Her 
neck  was  stretched  out  straight,  her  eyes  towards 
the  sky;  which  gave  to  her  the  appearance  of  a 
long-eared  alligator.     I  have  never  had  much  to 
do  with  cows.      I   don't  know  how  you  talk  to 
them.      I   told  her  to   "  be   quiet,"   and   to   "  lie 
down  " ;  and  made  a  pretence  to  throw  a  boot  at 
her.     It  seemed  to  cheer  her,  having  an  audience; 
she  added  half  a  dozen  extra  notes.     I  never  knew 
before  a  cow  had  so  much  in  her.     There  is  a 
thing  one   sometimes  meets  with  in  the  suburbs 
— or  one  used  to;  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is 
still  extant,  but  when  I  was  a  boy  it  was  quite 

51 


52  THEY  AND  I 

common.  It  has  a  hurdy-gurdy  fixed  to  its  waist 
and  a  drum  strapped  on  behind,  a  row  of  pipes 
hanging  from  its  face,  and  bells  and  clappers 
from  most  of  its  other  joints.  It  plays  them  all 
at  once,  and  smiles.  This  cow  reminded  me  of 
it — with  organ  effects  added.  She  didn't  smile; 
there  was  that  to  be  said  in  her  favour. 

I  hoped  that  if  I  made  believe  to  be  asleep  she 
would  get  discouraged.  So  I  closed  the  window 
ostentatiously,  and  went  back  to  bed.  But  it  only 
had  the  effect  of  putting  her  on  her  mettle.  "  He 
did  not  care  for  that  last,"  I  imagined  her  saying 
to  herself,  "  I  wasn't  at  my  best.  There  wasn't 
feeling  enough  in  it."  She  kept  it  up  for  about 
half  an  hour,  and  then  the  gate  against  which,  I 
suppose,  she  had  been  leaning,  gave  way  with  a 
crash.  That  frightened  her,  and  I  heard  her  gal- 
lop off  across  the  field.  I  was  on  the  point  of  doz- 
ing off  again  when  a  pair  of  pigeons  settled  on  the 
window-sill  and  began  to  coo.  It  is  a  pretty  sound 
when  you  are  in  the  mood  for  it.  I  wrote  a  poem 
once — a  simple  thing,  but  instinct  with  longing 
« — while  sitting  under  a  tree  and  listening  to  the 
cooing  of  a  pigeon.  But  that  was  in  the  after- 
noon.     My   only  longing   now   was   for   a   gun. 


THEY  AND  I  53 

Three  times  I  got  out  of  bed  and  "  shoo'd  "  them 
away.    The  third  time  I  remained  by  the  window 
till  I  had  got  it  firmly  into  their  heads  that  I  really 
did  not  want  them.    My  behaviour  on  the  former 
two   occasions  they  had   evidently  judged  to  be 
mere  playfulness.     I   had  just   got  back  to  bed 
again  when  an  owl  began  to  screech.     That  is 
another    sound    I    used    to    think    attractive— so 
weird,  so  mysterious.     It  is  Swinburne,  I  think, 
who  says  that  you  never  get  the  desired  one  and 
the  time  and  the  place  all  right  together.     If  the 
beloved  one  is  with  you,  it  is  the  wrong  place  or 
at  the  wrong  time;  and  if  the  time  and  the  place 
happen  to  be  right,  then  it  is  the  party  that  is 
wrong.    The  owl  was  all  right :  I  like  owls.    The 
place  was  all  right.     He  had  struck  the  wrong 
time,  that  was  all.    Eleven  o'clock  at  night,  when 
you  can't  see  him,  and  naturally  feel  that  you  want 
to,  is  the  proper  time  for  an  owl.     Perched  on 
the  roof  of  a  cowshed  in  the  early  dawn  he  looks 
silly.     He   clung  there,   flapping  his  wings  and 
screeching  at  the  top  of  his  voice.     What  it  was 
he  wanted  I  am  sure  I  don't  know;  and  anyhow 
it  didn't  seem  the  way  to  get  it.    He  came  to  this 
conclusion  himself  at  the  end  of  twenty  minutes, 


54  THEY  AND  I 

and  shut  himself  up  and  went  home.  I  thought 
I  was  going  to  have  at  last  some  peace,  when  a 
corn-crake — a  creature  upon  whom  Nature  has  be- 
stowed a  song  like  to  the  tearing  of  calico-sheets 
mingled  with  the  sharpening  of  saws — settled 
somewhere  in  the  garden  and  set  to  work  to  praise 
its  Maker  according  to  its  lights.  I  have  a  friend, 
a  poet  who  lives  just  off  the  Strand,  and  spends 
his  evenings  at  the  Garrick  Club.  He  writes 
occasional  verse  for  the  evening  papers,  and  talks 
about  the  "  silent  country,  drowsy  with  the  weight 
of  languors."  One  of  these  times  I'll  lure  him 
down  for  a  Saturday  to  Monday  and  let  him  find 
out  what  the  country  really  is — let  him  hear  it. 
He  is  becoming  too  much  of  a  dreamer:  it  will 
do  him  good,  wake  him  up  a  bit.  The  corn- 
crake after  a  while  stopped  quite  suddenly  with 
a  jerk  and  for  the  next  five  minutes  there  was 
silence. 

"  If  this  continues  for  another  five,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "  I'll  be  asleep."  I  felt  it  coming  over 
me.  I  had  hardly  murmured  the  words  when 
the  cow  turned  up  again.  I  should  say  she  had 
been  somewhere  and  had  had  a  drink.  She  was 
in  better  voice  than  ever. 


THEY  AND  I  55 

It  occurred  to  me  that  this  would  be  an  op- 
portunity to  make  a  few  notes  on  the  sunrise. 
The  literary  man  is  looked  to  for  occasional  de- 
scription of  the  sunrise.  The  earnest  reader  who 
has  heard  about  this  sunrise  thirsts  for  full  par- 
ticulars. Myself,  for  purposes  of  observation,  I 
have  generally  chosen  December  or  the  early  part 
of  January.  But  one  never  knows.  Maybe  one 
of  these  days  I'll  want  a  summer  sunrise,  with 
birds  and  dew-besprinkled  flowers:  it  goes  well 
with  the  rustic  heroine,  the  miller's  daughter,  or 
the  girl  who  brings  up  chickens  and  has  dreams. 
I  met  a  brother  author  once  at  seven  o'clock  in 
the  morning  in  Kensington  Gardens.  He  looked 
half  asleep  and  so  disagreeable  that  I  hesitated  for 
a  while  to  speak  to  him:  he  is  a  man  that  as  a 
rule  breakfasts  at  eleven.  But  I  summoned  my 
courage  and  accosted  him. 

"  This  is  early  for  you,"  I  said. 

"  It's  early  for  any  one  but  a  born  fool,"  he 
answered. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked.  "Can't  you 
sleep?" 

"Can't  I  sleep?"  he  retorted  indignantly. 
"  Why,  I  daren't  sit  down  upon  a  seat,  I  daren't 


56  THEY  AND  I 

lean  up  against  a  tree.  If  I  did  I'd  be  asleep  in 
half  a  second." 

"  What's  the  idea?  "  I  persisted.  "  Been  read- 
ing Smiles's  '  Self-Help  and  the  Secret  of  Suc- 
cess '?  Don't  be  absurd,"  I  advised  him.  "  You'll 
be  going  to  Sunday  school  next  and  keeping  a  diary. 
You  have  left  it  too  late :  we  don't  reform  at  forty. 
Go  home  and  go  to  bed."  I  could  see  he  was 
doing  himself  no  good. 

"  I'm  going  to  bed,"  he  answered,  "  I'm  going 
to  bed  for  a  month  when  I've  finished  this  con- 
founded novel  that  I'm  on.  Take  my  advice," 
he  said — he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder — 
"never  choose  a  colonial  girl  for  your  heroine. 
At  our  age  it  is  simple  madness. 

"  She's  a  fine  girl,"  he  continued,  "  and  good. 
Has  a  heart  of  gold.  She's  wearing  me  to  a 
shadow.  I  wanted  something  fresh  and  uncon- 
ventional. I  didn't  grasp  what  it  was  going  to 
do.  She's  the  girl  that  gets  up  early  in  the  morn- 
ing and  rides  bare-back — the  horse,  I  mean  of 
course;  don't  be  so  silly.  Over  in  New  South 
Wales  it  didn't  matter.  I  threw  in  the  usual 
local  colour — the  eucalyptus-tree  and  the  kanga- 
roo— and  let  her  ride.    It  is  now  that  she  is  over 


THEY  AND  I  57 

here  in  London  that  I  wish  I  had  never  thought 
of  her.  She  gets  up  at  five  and  wanders  about 
the  silent  city.  That  means,  of  course,  that  I  have 
to  get  up  at  five  in  order  to  record  her  impres- 
sions. I  have  walked  six  miles  this  morning. 
First  to  St.  Paul's  Cathedral;  she  likes  it  when 
there's  nobody  about.  You'd  think  it  wasn't  big 
enough  for  her  to  see  if  anybody  else  was  in  the 
street.  She  thinks  of  it  as  of  a  mother  watching 
over  her  sleeping  children;  she's  full  of  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  And  from  there  to  Westminster 
Bridge.  She  sits  on  the  parapet  and  reads  Words- 
worth, till  the  policeman  turns  her  off.  This  is 
another  of  her  favourite  spots."  He  indicated 
with  a  look  of  concentrated  disgust  the  avenue 
where  we  were  standing.  "  This  is  where  she 
likes  to  finish  up.  She  comes  here  to  listen  to  a 
blackbird." 

11  Well,  you  are  through  with  it  now,"  I  said 
to  console  him.     "  You've  done  it;  and  it's  over." 

"  Through  with  it!  "  he  laughed  bitterly.  "  I'm 
just  beginning  it.  There's  the  entire  East  End 
to  be  done  yet:  she's  got  to  meet  a  fellow  there 
as  big  a  crank  as  herself.  And  walking  isn't  the 
worst.      She's   going  to   have   a   horse;   you   can 


58  THEY  AND  I 

guess  what  that  means.  Hyde  Park  will  be  no 
good  to  her.  She'll  find  out  Richmond  and 
Ham  Common.  I've  got  to  describe  the  scenery 
and  the  mad  joy  of  the  thing." 

"  Can't  you  imagine  it?  "  I  suggested. 

"  I'm  going  to  imagine  all  the  enjoyable  part 
of  it,"  he  answered.  "  I  must  have  a  ground- 
work to  go  upon.  She's  got  to  have  feelings 
come  to  her  upon  this  horse.  You  can't  enter 
into  a  rider's  feelings  when  you've  almost  for- 
gotten which  side  of  the  horse  you  get  up." 

I  walked  with  him  to  the  Serpentine.  I  had 
been  wondering  how  it  was  he  had  grown  stout 
so  suddenly.  He  had  a  bath  towel  round  him  un- 
derneath his  coat. 

"  It'll  give  me  my  death  of  cold,  I  know  it 
will,"  he  chattered  while  unlacing  his  boots. 

"  Can't  you  leave  it  till  the  summer-time,"  I 
suggested,  "  and  take  her  to  Ostend?  " 

"  It  wouldn't  be  unconventional,"  he  growled. 
"  She  wouldn't  take  an  interest  in  it." 

II  But  do  they  allow  ladies  to  bathe  in  the 
Serpentine?"  I  persisted. 

"  It  won't  be  the  Serpentine,"  he  explained. 
"  It's  going  to  be  the  Thames  at  Greenwich.     But 


THEY  AND  I  59 

it  must  be  the  same  sort  of  feeling.  She's  got  to 
tell  them  all  about  it  during  a  lunch  in  Queen's 
Gate,  and  shock  them  all.  That's  all  she  does  it 
for,  in  my  opinion." 

He  emerged  a  mottled  blue.  I  helped  him 
into  his  clothes,  and  he  was  fortunate  enough  to 
find  an  early  cab.  The  book  appeared  at  Christ- 
mas. The  critics  agreed  that  the  heroine  was  a 
delightful  creation.  Some  of  them  said  they  would 
like  to  have  known  her. 

Remembering  my  poor  friend,  it  occurred  to 
me  that  by  going  out  now  and  making  a  few 
notes  about  the  morning,  I  might  be  saving  my- 
self trouble  later  on.  I  slipped  on  a  few  things 
— nothing  elaborate — put  a  notebook  *in  my 
pocket,  opened  the  door  and  went  down. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say 
"  opened  the  door  and  was  down."  It  was  my 
own  fault,  I  admit.  We  had  talked  this  thing 
over  before  going  to  bed,  and  I  myself  had  im- 
pressed upon  Veronica  the  need  for  caution.  The 
architect  of  the  country  cottage  does  not  waste 
space.  He  dispenses  with  landings;  the  bedroom 
door  opens  on  to  the  top  stair.  It  does  not  do  to 
walk  out  of  your  bedroom,  for  the  reason  there  is 


6o  THEY  AND  I 

nothing  outside  to  walk  on.  I  had  said  to  Veron- 
ica, pointing  out  this  fact  to  her: 

"  Now  don't,  in  the  morning,  come  bursting 
out  of  the  room  in  your  usual  volcanic  style,  be- 
cause if  you  do  there  will  be  trouble.  As  you 
perceive,  there  is  no  landing.  The  stairs  com- 
mence at  once ;  they  are  steep,  and  they  lead  down 
to  a  brick  floor.  Open  the  door  quietly,  look 
where  you  are  going,  and  step  carefully." 

Dick  had  added  his  advice  to  mine.  "  I  did 
that  myself  the  first  morning,"  Dick  had  said. 
"  I  stepped  straight  out  of  the  bedroom  into  the 
kitchen ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  it  hurts.  You  be  care- 
ful, young  'un.  This  cottage  doesn't  lend  itself  to 
dash."  - 

Robina  had  fallen  down  with  a  tray  in  her 
hand.  She  said  that  never  should  she  forget  the 
horror  of  that  moment,  when,  sitting  on  the 
kitchen  floor,  she  had  cried  to  Dick — her  own 
voice  sounding  to  her  as  if  it  came  from  some- 
where quite  far  off:  "Is  it  broken?  Tell  me  the 
truth.  Is  it  broken  anywhere?"  and  Dick  had 
replied:  "Broken!  why,  it's  smashed  to  atoms. 
What  did  you  expect?"  Robina  had  asked  the 
question  with  reference  to  her  head,  while  Dick 


THEY  AND  I  61 

had  thought  she  was  alluding  to  the  teapot.  In 
that  moment,  had  said  Robina,  her  whole  life  had 
passed  before  her.  She  let  Veronica  feel  the 
bump. 

Veronica  was  disappointed  with  the  bump,  hav- 
ing expected  something  bigger,  but  had  promised 
to  be  careful.  We  had  all  agreed  that  if  in  spite 
of  our  warnings  she  forgot,  and  came  blundering 
down  in  the  morning,  it  would  serve  her  right.  It 
was  thinking  of  all  this  that,  as  I  lay  upon  the 
floor,  made  me  feel  angry  with  everybody.  I  hate 
people  who  can  sleep  through  noises  that  wake 
me  up.  Why  was  I  the  only  person  in  the  house 
to  be  disturbed?  Dick's  room  was  round  the 
corner;  there  was  some  excuse  for  him.  But 
Robina  and  Veronica's  window  looked  straight 
down  upon  the  cow.  If  Robina  and  Veronica  were 
not  a  couple  of  logs,  the  cow  would  have  aroused 
them.  We  should  have  discussed  the  matter  with 
the  door  ajar.  Robina  would  have  said,  "What- 
ever you  do,  be  careful  of  the  stairs,  Pa,"  and  I 
should  have  remembered.  The  modern  child  ap- 
pears to  me  to  have  no  feeling  for  its  parent. 

I  picked  myself  up  and  started  for  the  door. 
The  cow  continued  bellowing  steadily.     My  whole 


62  THEY  AND  I 

anxiety  was  to  get  to  her  quickly  and  to  hit  her. 
But  the  door  took  more  finding  than  I  could  have 
believed  possible.  The  shutters  were  closed  and 
the  whole  place  was  in  pitch  darkness.  The  idea 
had  been  to  furnish  this  cottage  only  with  things 
that  were  absolutely  necessary,  but  the  room  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  overcrowded.  There  was  a 
milking-stool,  which  is  a  thing  made  purposely 
heavy  so  that  it  may  not  be  easily  upset.  If  I 
tumbled  over  it  once  I  tumbled  over  it  a  dozen 
times.  I  got  hold  of  it  at  last  and  carried  it  about 
with  me.  I  thought  I  would  use  it  to  hit  the  cow 
— that  is,  when  I  had  found  the  front  door.  I 
knew  it  led  out  of  the  parlour,  but  could  not  recol- 
lect its  exact  position.  I  argued  that  if  I  kept 
along  the  wall  I  would  be  bound  to  come  to  it.  I 
found  the  wall,  and  set  off  full  of  hope.  I  suppose 
the  explanation  was  that,  without  knowing  it,  I 
must  have  started  with  the  door — not  the  front 
door,  the  other  door,  leading  into  the  kitchen.  I 
crept  along,  carefully  feeling  my  way,  and  struck 
quite  new  things  altogether — things  I  had  no 
recollection  of  and  that  hit  me  in  fresh  places.  I 
climbed  over  what  I  presumed  to  be  a  beer-barrel 
and  landed  among  bottles ;  there  were  dozens  upon 


THEY  AND  I  63 

dozens  of  them.  To  get  away  from  these  bottles 
I  had  to  leave  the  wall;  but  I  found  it  again,  as 
I  thought,  and  I  felt  along  it  for  another  half  a 
dozen  yards  or  so  and  then  came  again  upon  bot- 
tles: the  room  appeared  to  be  paved  with  bottles. 
A  little  farther  on  I  rolled  over  another  beer- 
barrel:  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  the  same  beer- 
barrel,  but  I  did  not  know  this.  At  the  time  it 
seemed  to  me  that  Robina  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  run  a  public-house.  I  found  the  milking-stool 
again  and  started  afresh,  and  before  I  had  gone 
a  dozen  steps  was  in  among  bottles  again.  Later 
on,  in  the  broad  daylight,  it  was  easy  enough  to 
understand  what  had  happened.  I  had  been  care- 
fully feeling  my  way  round  and  round  a  screen.  I 
got  so  sick  of  these  bottles  and  so  tired  of  rolling 
over  these  everlasting  beer-barrels,  that  I  aban- 
doned the  wall  and  plunged  bodily  into  space. 

I  had  barely  started,  when,  looking  up,  I  saw 
the  sky  above  me :  a  star  was  twinkling  just  above 
my  head.  Had  I  been  wide  awake,  and  had  the 
cow  stopped  bellowing  for  just  one  minute,  I 
would  have  guessed  that  somehow  or  another  I 
had  got  into  a  chimney.  But  as  things  wTere,  the 
wonder  and  the  mystery  of  it  all  appalled  me. 


64  THEY  AND  I 

"  Alice's  Adventures  in  Wonderland  "  would  have 
appeared  to  me,  at  that  moment,  in  the  nature  of 
a  guide  to  travellers.  Had  a  rocking-horse  or  a 
lobster  suddenly  appeared  to  me  I  should  have 
sat  and  talked  to  it;  and  if  it  had  not  answered 
me  I  should  have  thought  it  sulky  and  been  hurt. 
I  took  a  step  forward  and  the  star  disappeared, 
just  as  if  somebody  had  blown  it  out.  I  was  not 
surprised  in  the  least.  I  was  expecting  anything 
to  happen. 

I  found  the  door  and  it  opened  quite  easily.  A 
wood  was  in  front  of  me.  I  couldn't  see  any  cow 
anywhere,  but  I  still  heard  her.  It  all  seemed 
quite  natural.  I  would  wander  into  the  wood; 
most  likely  I  would  meet  her  there,  and  she  would 
be  smoking  a  pipe.  In  all  probability  she  would 
know  some  poetry. 

With  the  fresh  air  my  senses  gradually  came 
back  to  me,  and  I  began  to  understand  why  it 
was  I  could  not  see  the  cow.  The  reason  was 
that  the  house  was  between  us.  By  some  mys- 
terious process  I  had  been  discharged  into  the 
back  garden.  I  still  had  the  milking-stool  in  my 
hand,  but  the  cow  no  longer  troubled  me.  Let 
her  see  if  she  could  wake  Veronica  by  merely  bel- 


THEY  AND  I  6$ 

lowing  outside  the  door;  it  was  more  than  I  had 
ever  been  able  to  do. 

I  sat  down  on  the  stool  and  opened  my  note- 
book. I  headed  the  page:  "  Sunrise  in  July:  ob- 
servations and  emotions,"  and  I  wrote  down  at 
once,  lest  I  should  forget  it,  that  towards  three 
o'clock  a  faint  light  is  discernible,  and  added  that 
this  light  gets  stronger  as  the  time  goes  on. 

It  sounded  footling  even  to  myself,  but  I  had 
been  reading  a  novel  of  the  realistic  school  that 
had  been  greatly  praised  for  its  actuality.  There 
is  a  demand  in  some  quarters  for  this  class  of  ob- 
servation. I  likewise  made  a  note  that  the  pigeon 
and  the  corn-crake  appear  to  be  among  the  earliest 
of  Nature's  children  to  welcome  the  coming  day; 
and  added  that  the  screech-owl  may  be  heard,  per- 
haps at  its  best,  by  any  one  caring  to  rise  for  the 
purpose,  some  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  dawn. 
That  was  all  I  could  think  of  just  then.  As  re- 
gards emotions  I  did  not  seem  to  have  any. 

I  lit  a  pipe  and  waited  for  the  sun.  The  sky 
in  front  of  me  was  tinged  with  a  faint  pink. 
Every  moment  it  flushed  a  deeper  red.  I  maintain 
that  any  one,  not  an  expert,  would  have  said  that 
was  the  portion  of  the  horizon  on  which  to  keep 


66  THEY  AND  I 

one's  eye.  I  kept  my  eye  upon  it,  but  no  sun  ap- 
peared. I  lit  another  pipe.  The  sky  in  front  of 
me  was  now  a  blaze  of  glory.  I  scribbled  a  few 
lines,  likening  the  scattered  clouds  to  brides  blush- 
ing at  the  approach  of  the  bridegroom.  That 
would  have  been  all  right  if  later  on  they  hadn't 
begun  to  turn  green :  it  seemed  the  wrong  colour 
for  a  bride.  Later  on  still  they  went  yellow,  and 
that  spoilt  the  simile  past  hope.  One  cannot  wax 
poetical  about  a  bride  who  at  the  approach  of 
the  bridegroom  turns  first  green  and  then  yellow: 
you  can  only  feel  sorry  for  her.  I  waited  some 
more.  The  sky  in  front  of  me  grew  paler  every 
moment.  I  began  to  fear  that  something  had  hap- 
pened to  that  sun.  If  I  hadn't  known  so  much 
astronomy  I  should  have  said  that  he  had  changed 
his  mind  and  had  gone  back  again.  I  rose  with 
the  idea  of  seeing  into  things.  He  had  been  up 
apparently  for  hours;  he  had  got  up  at  the  back 
of  me.  It  seemed  to  be  nobody's  fault.  I  put 
my  pipe  into  my  pocket  and  strolled  round  to  the 
front.  The  cow  was  still  there;  she  was  pleased 
to  see  me,  and  started  bellowing  again. 

I  heard  a  sound  of  whistling.     It  proceeded 
from    a    farmer's   boy.      I    hailed   him,    and   he 


THEY  AND  I  67 

climbed  a  gate  and  came  to  me  across  the  field. 
He  was  a  cheerful  youth.  He  nodded  to  the 
cow  and  hoped  she  had  had  a  good  night:  he 
pronounced  it  "  nihet." 

"You  know  the  cow?"  I  said. 

"Well,"  he  explained,  "we  don't  precisely 
move  in  the  sime  set.  Sort  o'  business  relytion- 
ship  more  like — if  you  understand  me?" 

Something  about  this  boy  was  worrying  me. 
He  did  not  seem  like  a  real  farmer's  boy.  But 
then  nothing  seemed  quite  real  this  morning.  My 
feeling  was  to  let  things  go. 

"  Whose  cow  is  it?  "  I  asked. 

He  stared  at  me. 

"  I  want  to  know  to  whom  it  belongs,"  I  said. 
"  I  want  to  restore  it  to  him." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  boy,  "  but  where  do 
you  live?  " 

He  was  making  me  cross.  "  Where  do  I 
live?"  I  retored.  "Why,  in  this  cottage.  You 
don't  think  I've  got  up  early  and  come  from  a  dis- 
tance to  listen  to  this  cow?  Don't  talk  so  much. 
Do  you  know  whose  cow  it  is,  or  don't  you?  " 

"  It's  your  cow,"  said  the  boy. 

It  was  my  turn  to  stare. 


68  THEY  AND  I 

"  But  I  haven't  got  a  cow,"  I  told  him. 

"  Yus  you  have,"  he  persisted;  "you've  got 
that  cow." 

She  had  stopped  bellowing  for  a  moment.  She 
was  not  the  cow  I  felt  I  could  ever  take  a  pride 
in.  At  some  time  or  another,  quite  recently,  she 
must  have  sat  down  in  some  mud. 

"  How  did  I  get  her?  "  I  demanded. 

"  The  young  lydy,"  explained  the  boy,  "  she 
came  rahnd  to  our  plice  on  Tuesday " 

I  began  to  see  light.  "  An  excitable  young 
lady — talks  very  fast — never  waits  for  the  an- 
swer? " 

"  With  jolly  fine  eyes,"  added  the  boy  approv- 
ingly. 

"And  she  ordered  a  cow?" 

"  Didn't  seem  to  'ave  strength  enough  to  live 
another  dy  withahut  it." 

"  Any  stipulation  made  concerning  the  price  of 
the  cow?  " 

"Any  what?" 

"  The  young  lady  with  the  eyes — did  she  think 
to  ask  the  price  of  the  cow?  " 

"  No  sordid  details  was  entered  into,  so  far  as 
I  could  'ear,"  replied  the  boy. 


THEY  AND  I  69 

They  would  not  have  been — by  Robina. 

11  Any  hint  let  fall  as  to  what  the  cow  was 
wanted  for?  " 

"  The  lydy  gives  us  to  understand,"  said  the 
boy,  "  that  fresh  milk  was  'er  idea." 

That  surprised  me :  that  was  thoughful  of  Ro- 
bina.   "  And  this  is  the  cow?  " 

"  I  towed  her  rahnd  last  night.  I  didn't  knock 
at  the  door  and  tell  yer  abaht  'er,  cos,  to  be  frank 
with  yer,  there  wasn't  anybody  in." 

11  What  is  she  bellowing  for?  "  I  asked. 

11  Well,"  said  the  boy,  "  it's  only  a  theory,  o' 
course,  but  I  should  sy,  from  the  look  of  'er,  that 
she  wanted  to  be  milked." 

11  But  it  started  bellowing  at  half-past  two,"  I 
argued.  "  It  doesn't  expect  to  be  milked  at  half- 
past  two,  does  it?  " 

11  Meself,"  said  the  boy,  "  I've  given  up  look- 
ing for  sense  in  cows." 

In  some  unaccountable  way  this  boy  was  hyp- 
notising me.  Everything  had  suddenly  become 
out  of  place.  The  cow  had  suddenly  become  ab- 
surd; she  ought  to  have  been  a  milk-can.  The 
wood  struck  me  as  neglected :  there  ought  to  have 
been  notice-boards  about,  "  Keep  off  the  Grass," 


70  THEY  AND  I 

"  Smoking  Strictly  Prohibited  " ;  there  wasn't  a 
seat  to  be  seen.  The  cottage  had  surely  got  itself 
there  by  accident:  where  was  the  street?  The 
birds  were  all  out  of  their  cages;  everything  was 
upside  down. 

"Are  you  a  real  farmer's  boy?"  I  asked  him. 

"  O'  course  I  am,"  he  answered.  "  What  do 
yer  tike  me  for — a  hartist  in  disguise?" 

It  came  to  me.     "What  is  your  name?" 

"  'Enery — 'Enery  'Opkins." 

11  Where  were  you  born?  " 

"  Camden  Tahn." 

Here  was  a  nice  beginning  to  a  rural  life! 
What  place  could  be  the  country  while  this  boy 
Hopkins  was  about?  He  would  have  given  to  the 
Garden  of  Eden  the  atmosphere  of  an  outlying 
suburb. 

"  Do  you  want  to  earn  an  occasional  shilling?  " 
I  put  it  to  him. 

"  I'd  rather  it  come  reggler,"  said  Hopkins. 
"  Better  for  me  kerrickter." 

"You  drop  that  Cockney  accent  and,  learn 
Berkshire,  and  I'll  give  you  half  a  sovereign  when 
you  can  talk  it,"  I  promised  him.  "  Don't  for 
instance,  say  '  ain't,'  "  I  explained  to  him.     "  Say 


THEY  AND  I  71 

I  bain't.'  Don't  say  '  The  young  lydy,  she  came 
rahnd  to  our  plice ' ;  say  *  The  missy,  'er  coomed 
down;  'er  coomed,  and  'er  ses  to  the  maister,  'er 
ses  .  .  .'  That's  the  sort  of  thing  I  want  to 
surround  myself  with  here.  When  you  informed 
me  that  the  cow  was  mine,  you  should  have  said: 

*  Whoi,  'er  be  your  cow,  surelie  'er  be.' ' 

"Sure    it's    Berkshire?"   demanded    Hopkins. 

II  You're  confident  about  it?  "  There  is  a  type  that 
is  by  nature  suspicious. 

"  It  may  not  be  Berkshire  pure  and  undefined," 
I  admitted.     "  It  is  what  in  literature  we  term 

*  dialect.'  It  does  for  most  places  outside  the 
twelve-mile  radius.  The  object  is  to  convey  a 
feeling  of  rustic  simplicity.  Anyhow,  it  isn't  Cam- 
den Town." 

I  started  him  with  a  shilling  then  and  there  to 
encourage  him.  He  promised  to  come  round  in 
the  evening  for  one  or  two  books,  written  by 
friends  of  mine,  that  I  reckoned  would  be  of  help 
to  him;  and  I  returned  to  the  cottage  and  set  to 
work  to  rouse  Robina.  Her  tone  was  apologetic. 
She  had  got  the  notion  into  her  head  that  I  had 
been  calling  her  for  quite  a  long  time.  I  explained 
that  this  was  not  the  case. 


72  THEY  AND  I 

"How  funny!"  she  answered.  "I  said  to 
Veronica  more  than  an  hour  ago :  '  I'm  sure  that's 
Pa  calling  us.'  I  suppose  I  must  have  been  dream- 
ing." 

11  Well,  don't  dream  any  more,"  I  suggested. 
11  Come  down  and  see  to  this  confounded  cow  of 
yours." 

"Oh,"  said  Veronica,  "has  it  come?" 

"  It  has  come,"  I  told  her.  "  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  has  been  here  some  time.  It  ought  to  have 
been  milked  four  hours  ago,  according  to  its  own 
idea." 

Robina  said  she  would  be  down  in  a  minute. 

She  was  down  in  twenty-five,  which  was  sooner 
than  I  had  expected.  She  brought  Veronica  with 
her.  She  said  she  would  have  been  down  sooner 
if  she  had  not  waited  for  Veronica.  It  appeared 
that  this  was  just  precisely  what  Veronica  had 
been  telling  her.  I  was  feeling  irritable.  I  had 
been  up  half  a  day,  and  hadn't  had  my  breakfast. 

"  Don't  stand  there  arguing,"  I  told  them. 
"  For  goodness'  sake  let's  get  to  work  and  milk 
this  cow.  We  shall  have  the  poor  creature  dying 
on  our  hands  if  we're  not  careful." 

Robina  was  wandering  round  the  room. 


THEY  AND  I  73 

"  You  haven't  come  across  a  milking-stool  any- 
where, have  you,  Pa?"  asked  Robina. 

"  I  have  come  across  your  milking-stool,  I  esti- 
mate, some  thirteen  times,"  I  told  her.  I  fetched 
it  from  where  I  had  left  it,  and  gave  it  to  her;  and 
we  filed  out  in  procession;  Veronica  with  a  gal- 
vanised iron  bucket  bringing  up  the  rear. 

The  problem  that  was  forcing  itself  upon  my 
mind  was:  did  Robina  know  how  to  milk  a  cow? 
Robina,  I  argued,  the  idea  once  in  her  mind, 
would  immediately  have  ordered  a  cow,  clamour- 
ing for  it — as  Hopkins  had  picturesquely  ex- 
pressed it — as  though  she  had  not  strength  to  live 
another  day  without  a  cow.  Her  next  proceeding 
would  have  been  to  buy  a  milking-stool,  this  one 
she  had  selected,  ornamented  with  a  rough  draw- 
ing of  a  cow  in  poker  work:  a  little  too  solid  for 
my  taste,  but  one  that  I  should  say  would  wear 
well.  The  pail  she  had  not  as  yet  had  time  to  see 
about.  This  galvanised  bucket  we  were  using  was, 
I  took  it,  a  temporary  makeshift.  When  Robina 
had  leisure  she  would  go  into  the  town  and  pur- 
chase something  at  an  art  store.  That,  to  com- 
plete the  scheme,  she  would  have  done  well  to 
have   taken    a    few   practical  lessons   in   milking 


74  THEY  AND  I 

would  come  to  her,  as  an  inspiration,  with  the  ar- 
rival of  the  cow.  I  noticed  that  Robina's  steps 
as  we  approached  the  cow  were  less  elastic.  Just 
outside  the  cow  Robina  halted. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Robina,  "  there's  only  one 
way  of  milking  a  cow?  " 

"  There  may  be  fancy  ways,"  I  answered, 
"  necessary  to  you  if  later  on  you  think  of  enter- 
ing a  competition.  This  morning,  seeing  we  are 
late,  I  shouldn't  worry  too  much  about  style.  If 
I  were  you,  this  morning  I  should  adopt  the  or- 
dinary unimaginative  method,  and  aim  only  at 
results." 

Robina  sat  down  and  placed  her  bucket  under- 
neath the  cow. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Robina,  "  it  doesn't  matter 
which — which  one  I  begin  with?" 

It  was  perfectly  plain  she  hadn't  the  least  no- 
tion how  to  milk  a  cow.  I  told  her  so,  adding 
comments.  Now  and  then  a  little  fatherly  talk 
does  good.  As  a  rule  I  have  to  work  myself  up 
for  these  occasions.  This  morning  I  was  feeling 
fairly  fit:  things  had  conspired  to  this  end.  I 
put  before  Robina  the  aims  and  privileges  of  the 
household  fairy  as  they  appeared,  not  to  her,  but 


THEY  AND  I  75 

to  me.  I  also  confided  to  Veronica  the  result  of 
many  weeks'  reflections  concerning  her  and  her  be- 
haviour. I  also  told  them  both  what  I  thought 
about  Dick.  I  do  this  sort  of  thing  once  every 
six  months:  it  has  an  excellent  effect  for  about 
three  days. 

Robina  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  seized  the 
first  one  that  came  to  her  hand.  The  cow,  with- 
out saying  a  word,  kicked  over  the  empty  bucket, 
and  walked  away,  disgust  expressed  in  every  hair 
of  her  body.  Robina,  crying  quietly,  followed 
her.  By  patting  her  on  her  neck,  and  letting  her 
wipe  her  nose  on  my  coat — which  seemed  to  com- 
fort her^I  persuaded  her  to  keep  still  while  Ro- 
bina worked  for  ten  minutes  at  high  pressure.  The 
result  was  about  a  glassful  and  a  half,  the  cow's 
capacity,  to  all  appearance,  being  by  this  time 
some  five  or  six  gallons. 

Robina  broke  down,  and  acknowledged  she  had 
been  a  wicked  girl.  If  the  cow  died,  so  she  said, 
she  should  never  forgive  herself.  Veronica  at 
this  burst  into  tears  also;  and  the  cow,  whether 
moved  afresh  by  her  own  troubles  or  by  theirs, 
commenced  again  to  bellow.  I  was  fortunately 
able  to  find  an  elderly  labourer  smoking  a  pipe 


76  THEY  AND  I 

and  eating  bacon  underneath  a  tree;  and  with 
him  I  bargained  that  for  a  shilling  a  day  he  should 
milk  the  cow  till  further  notice. 

We  left  him  busy,  and  returned  to  the  cottage. 
Dick  met  us  at  the  door  with  a  cheery  "  Good 
morning."  He  wanted  to  know  if  we  had  heard 
the  storm.  He  also  wanted  to  know  when  break- 
fast would  be  ready.  Robina  thought  that  happy 
event  would  be  shortly  after  he  had  boiled  the 
kettle  and  made  the  tea  and  fried  the  bacon, 
while  Veronica  was  laying  the  table. 

"But  I  thought " 

Robina  said  that  if  he  dared  to  mention  the 
word  "  household-fairy  "  she  would  box  his  ears, 
and  go  straight  up  to  bed,  and  leave  everybody 
to  do  everything.     She  said  she  meant  it. 

Dick  has  one  virtue:  it  is  philosophy.  "  Come 
on,  young  'un,"  said  Dick  to  Veronica.  "  Trouble 
is  good  for  us  all." 

"  Some  of  us,"  said  Veronica,  "  it  makes  bitter." 

We  sat  down  to  breakfast  at  eight-thirty. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Our  architect  arrived  on  Friday  afternoon,  or 
rather,  his  assistant. 

I  felt  from  the  first  I  was  going  to  like  him. 
He  is  shy,  and  that,  of  course,  makes  him  appear 
awkward.  But,  as  I  explained  to  Robina,  it  is 
the  shy  young  men  who,  generally  speaking,  turn 
out  best :  few  men  could  have  been  more  painfully 
shy  up  to  twenty-five  than  myself. 

Robina  said  that  was  different:  in  the  case  of 
an  author  it  did  not  matter.  Robina's  attitude 
towards  the  literary  profession  would  not  annoy 
me  so  much  were  it  not  typical.  To  be  a  literary 
man  is,  in  Robina's  opinion,  to  be  a  licensed  idiot. 
It  was  only  a  week  or  two  ago  that  I  overheard 
from  my  study  window  a  conversation  between 
Veronica  and  Robina  upon  this  very  point.  Ver- 
onica's eye  had  caught  something  lying  on  the 
grass.  I  could  not  myself  see  what  it  was,  in  con- 
sequence of  an  intervening  laurel  bush.  Veronica 
stooped  down  and  examined  it  with  care.  The 
next  instant,  uttering  a  piercing  whoop,  she  leapt 

77 


78  THEY  AND  I 

into  the  air;  then,  clapping  her  hands,  began  to 
dance.  Her  face  was  radiant  with  a  holy  joy. 
Robina,  passing  near,  stopped  and  demanded  ex- 
planation. 

"Pa's  tennis  racquet!"  shouted  Veronica — 
Veronica  never  sees  the  use  of  talking  in  an  or- 
dinary tone  of  voice  when  shouting  will  do  just 
as  well.  She  continued  clapping  her  hands  and 
taking  little  bounds  into  the  air. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  on  like  that  for?  " 
asked  Robina.     "  It  hasn't  bit  you,  has  it?" 

"  It's  been  out  all  night  in  the  wet,"  shouted 
Veronica.    "  He  forgot  to  bring  it  in." 

"  You  wicked  child !  "  said  Robina  severely. 
"  It's  nothing  to  be  pleased  about." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  explained  Veronica.  "I  thought 
at  first  it  was  mine.  Oh,  wouldn't  there  have 
been  a  talk  about  it,  if  it  had  been!  Oh,  my! 
wouldn't  there  have  been  a  row!"  She  settled 
down  to  a  steady  rhythmic  dance,  suggestive  of  a 
Greek  chorus  expressing  satisfaction  with  the 
gods. 

Robina  seized  her  by  the  shoulders  and  shook 
her  back  into  herself.     "  If  it  had  been  yours," 


THEY  AND  I  79 

said  Robina,  "  you  would  deserve  to  have  been 
sent  to  bed." 

"  Well,  then,  why  don't  he  go  to  bed?  "  argued 
Veronica. 

Robina  took  her  by  the  arm  and  walked  her 
up  and  down  just  underneath  my  window.  I 
listened,  because  the  conversation  interested  me. 

"  Pa,  as  I  am  always  explaining  to  you,"  said 
Robina,  "  is  a  literary  man.  He  cannot  help  for- 
getting things." 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  forgetting  things,"  insisted 
Veronica. 

"You  find  it  hard,"  explained  Robina  kindly; 
"  but  if  you  keep  on  trying  you  will  succeed.  You 
will  get  more  thoughtful.  I  used  to  be  forgetful 
and  do  foolish  things  once,  when  I  was  a  little 

girl." 

"  Good  thing  for  us  if  we  was  all  literary,"  sug- 
gested Veronica. 

"  If  we  '  were '  all  literary,"  Robina  corrected 
her.  "  But  you  see  we  are  not.  You  and  I  and 
Dick,  we  are  just  ordinary  mortals.  We  must  try 
and  think,  and  be  sensible.  In  the  same  way,  when 
Pa  gets  excited  and  raves — I  mean,  seems  to  rave 


80  THEY  AND  I 

— It's  the  literary  temperament.     He  can't  help 
it." 

"  Can't  you  help  doing  anything  when  you  are 
literary?"  asked  Veronica. 

"  There's  a  good  deal  you  can't  help,"  answered 
Robina.  "  It  isn't  fair  to  judge  them  by  the  or- 
dinary standard." 

They  drifted  towards  the  kitchen  garden — it 
was  the  time  of  strawberries — and  the  remainder 
of  the  talk  I  lost.  I  noticed  that  for  some  days 
afterwards  Veronica  displayed  a  tendency  to  shut- 
ting herself  up  in  the  schoolroom  with  a  copy- 
book, and  that  lead  pencils  had  a  way  of  disap- 
pearing from  my  desk.  One  in  particular  that 
had  suited  me  I  determined  if  possible  to  recover. 
A  subtle  instinct  guided  me  to  Veronica's  sanctum. 
I  found  her  thoughtfully  sucking  it.  She  explained 
to  me  that  she  was  writing  a  little  play. 

11  You  get  things  from  your  father,  don't 
you?  "  she  inquired  of  me. 

"You  do,"  I  admitted;  "but  you  ought  not 
to  take  them  without  asking.  I  am  always  telling 
you  of  it.  That  pencil  is  the  only  one  I  can  write 
with." 

"  I  didn't  mean  the  pencil,"  explained  Veronica. 


THEY  AND  I  81 

"  I  was  wondering  if  I  had  got  your  literary  tem- 
per." 

It  is  puzzling  when  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
this  estimate  accorded  by  the  general  public  to 
the  litterateur.  It  stands  to  reason  that  the  man 
who  writes  books,  explaining  everything  and  put- 
ting everybody  right,  must  be  himself  an  excep- 
tionally clever  man;  else  how  could  he  do  it! 
The  thing  is  pure  logic.  Yet  to  listen  to  Robina 
and  her  like  you  might  think  we  had  not  sense 
enough  to  run  ourselves,  as  the  saying  is — let  alone 
running  the  universe.  If  I  would  let  her,  Robina 
would  sit  and  give  me  information  by  the 
hour. 

11  The  ordinary  girl  .  .  ."  Robina  will  be- 
gin, with  the  air  of  a  University  Extension  Lec- 
turer. 

It  is  so  exasperating.  As  if  I  did  not  know  all 
there  is  to  be  known  about  girls!  Why,  it  is  my 
business.     I  point  this  out  to  Robina. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Robina  will  answer  sweetly. 
"  But  I  was  meaning  the  real  girl." 

It  would  make  not  the  slightest  difference  were 
I  even  quite  a  high-class  literary  man — Robina 
thinks  I  am:  she  is  a  dear  child.    Were  I  Shake- 


82  THEY  AND  I 

speare  himself,  and  could  I  in  consequence  say  to 
her:  "  Methinks,  child,  the  creator  of  Ophelia 
and  Juliet,  and  Rosamund  and  Beatrice,  must 
surely  know  something  about  girls,"  Robina  would 
still  make  answer: 

"  Of  course,  Pa,  dear.  Everybody  knows  how 
clever  you  are.  But  I  was  thinking  for  the  mo- 
ment of  real  girls." 

I  wonder  to  myself  sometimes,  Is  literature  to 
the  general  reader  ever  anything  more  than  a  fairy 
tale?  We  write  with  our  heart's  blood,  as  we 
put  it.  We  ask  our  conscience,  Is  it  right  thus 
to  lay  bare  the  secrets  of  our  souls?  The  general 
reader  does  not  grasp  that  we  are  writing  with  our 
heart's  blood:  to  him  it  is  just  ink.  He  does  not 
believe  we  are  laying  bare  the  secrets  of  our  souls: 
he  takes  it  we  are  just  pretending.  "  Once  upon 
a  time  there  lived  a  girl  named  Angelina  who 
loved  a  party  by  the  name  of  Edwin."  He  imag- 
ines— he,  the  general  reader — when  we  tell  him 
all  the  wonderful  thoughts  that  were  inside  An- 
gelina, that  it  was  we  who  put  them  there.  He 
does  not  know,  he  will  not  try  to  understand,  that 
Angelina  is  in  reality  more  real  than  is  Miss  Jones, 
who  rides  up  every  morning  in  the  'bus  with  him, 


THEY.  AND  I  83 

and  has  a  pretty  knack  of  rendering  conversation 
about  the  weather  novel  and  suggestive.  As  a 
boy  I  won  some  popularity  among  my  schoolmates 
as  a  teller  of  stories.  One  afternoon  to  a  small 
collection  with  whom  I  was  homing  across  Re- 
gent's Park,  I  told  the  story  of  a  beautiful 
Princess.  But  she  was  not  the  ordinary  Princess. 
She  would  not  behave  as  a  Princess  should.  I 
could  not  help  it.  The  others  heard  only  my 
voice,  but  I  was  listening  to  the  wind.  She  thought 
she  loved  the  Prince — until  he  had  wounded  the 
Dragon  unto  death  and  had  carried  her  away  into 
the  wood.  Then,  while  the  Prince  lay  sleeping, 
she  heard  the  Dragon  calling  to  her  in  its  pain, 
and  crept  back  to  where  it  lay  bleeding,  and  put 
her  arms  about  its  scaly  neck  and  kissed  it;  and 
that  healed  it.  I  was  hoping  myself  that  at  this 
point  it  would  turn  into  a  prince  itself,  but  it 
didn't;  it  just  remained  a  dragon — so  the  wind 
said.  Yet  the  Princess  loved  it:  it  wasn't  half  a 
bad  dragon,  when  you  knew  it.  I  could  not  tell 
them  what  became  of  the  Prince :  the  wind  didn't 
seem  to  care  a  hang  about  the  Prince. 

Myself,  I  liked  the  story,  but  Hocker,  who  was 
a  Fifth  Form  boy,  voicing  our  little  public,  said  it 


84  THEY,  AND  I 

was  rot,  so  far,  and  that  I  had  got  to  hurry  up 
and  finish  things  rightly. 

"  But  that  is  all,"  I  told  them. 

41  No,  it  isn't,"  said  Hocker.  "  She's  got  to 
marry  the  Prince  in  the  end.  He'll  have  to  kill 
the  Dragon  again;  and  mind  he  does  it  properly 
this  time.  Whoever  heard  of  a  Princess  leaving  a 
Prince  for  a  Dragon  1  " 

11  But  she  wasn't  the  ordinary  sort  of  Princess," 
I  argued. 

"  Then  she's  got  to  be,"  criticised  Hocker. 
"  Don't  you  give  yourself  so  many  airs.  You 
make  her  marry  the  Prince,  and  be  slippy  about 
it.  I've  got  to  catch  the  four-fifteen  from  Chalk 
Farm  station." 

"  But  she  didn't,"  I  persisted  obstinately.  "  She 
married  the  Dragon  and  lived  happy  ever  after- 
wards." 

Hocker  adopted  sterner  measures.  He  seized 
my  arm  and  twisted  it  behind  me. 

"She  married  who?"  demanded  Hocker: 
grammar  was  not  Hocker's  strong  point. 

"  The  Dragon,"  I  growled. 

"  She  married  who?  "  repeated  Hocker. 

"  The  Dragon,"  I  whined. 


THEY  AND  I  85 

"  She  married  who?  "  for  the  third  time  urged 
Hocker. 

Hocker  was  strong,  and  the  tears  were  forcing 
themselves  into  my  eyes  in  spite  of  me.  So  the 
Princess  in  return  for  healing  the  Dragon  made 
it  promise  to  reform.  It  went  back  with  her  to 
the  Prince,  and  made  itself  generally  useful  to 
both  of  them  for  the  rest  of  the  tour.  And  the 
Prince  took  the  Princess  home  with  him  and  mar- 
ried her;  and  the  Dragon  died  and  was  buried. 
The  others  liked  the  story  better,  but  I  hated  it; 
and  the  wind  sighed  and  died  away. 

The  little  crowd  becomes  the  reading  public, 
and  Hocker  grows  into  an  editor;  he  twists  my 
arm  in  other  ways.  Some  are  brave,  so  the  crowd 
kicks  them  and  scurries  off  to  catch  the  four- 
fifteen.  But  most  of  us,  I  fear,  are  slaves  to 
Hocker.  Then,  after  a  while,  the  wind  grows 
sulky  and  will  not  tell  us  stories  any  more,  and  we 
have  to  make  them  up  out  of  our  own  heads.  Per- 
haps it  is  just  as  well.  What  were  doors  and  win- 
dows made  for  but  to  keep  out  the  wind. 

He  is  a  dangerous  fellow,  this  wandering  Wind; 
he  leads  me  astray.  I  was  talking  about  our 
architect. 


86  THEY  AND  I 

He  made  a  bad  start,  so  far  as  Robina  was 
concerned,  by  coming  in  at  the  back  door.  Ro- 
bina, in  a  big  apron,  was  washing  up.  He  apolo- 
gised for  having  blundered  into  the  kitchen,  and 
offered  to  go  out  again  and  work  round  to  the 
front.  Robina  replied,  with  unnecessary  seventy 
as  I  thought,  that  an  architect,  if  any  one,  might 
have  known  the  difference  between  the  right  side 
of  a  house  and  the  wrong;  but  presumed  that 
youth  and  inexperience  could  always  be  pleaded 
as  excuse  for  stupidity.  I  cannot  myself  see  why 
Robina  should  have  been  so  much  annoyed. 
Labour,  as  Robina  had  been  explaining  to  Ver- 
onica only  a  few  hours  before,  exalts  a  woman. 
In  olden  days,  ladies — the  highest  in  the  land — ■ 
were  proud,  not  ashamed,  of  their  ability  to  per- 
form domestic  duties.  This,  later  on,  I  pointed 
out  to  Robina.  Her  answer  was  that  in  olden 
days  you  didn't  have  chits  of  boys  going  about, 
calling  themselves  architects,  and  opening  back 
doors  without  knocking;  or  if  they  did  knock, 
knocking  so  that  nobody  on  earth  could  hear  them. 

Robina  wiped  her  hands  on  the  towel  behind 
the  door,  and  brought  him  into  the  front  room, 
where  she  announced  him,  coldly,  as  "  The  young 


THEY  AND  I  87 

man  from  the  architect's  office."  He  explained — 
but  quite  modestly — that  he  was  not  exactly 
Messrs.  Spreight's  young  man,  but  an  architect 
himself,  a  junior  member  of  the  firm.  To  make 
it  clear  he  produced  his  card,  which  was  that  of 
Mr.  Archibald  T.  Bute,  F.R.I.B.A.  Practically 
speaking,  all  this  was  unnecessary.  Through  the 
open  door  I  had,  of  course,  heard  every  word; 
and  old  Spreight  had  told  me  of  his  intention  to 
send  me  one  of  his  most  promising  assistants,  who 
would  be  able  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  my 
work.  I  put  matters  right  by  introducing  him 
formally  to  Robina.  They  bowed  to  one  another 
rather  stiffly.  Robina  said  that  if  he  would  excuse 
her  she  would  return  to  her  work;  and  he  an- 
swered "  Charmed,"  and  also  that  he  didn't  mean 
it.  As  I  have  tried  to  get  it  into  Robina's  head, 
the  young  fellow  was  confused.  He  had  meant — 
it  was  self-evident — that  he  was  charmed  at  being 
introduced  to  her,  not  at  her  desire  to  return  to 
the  kitchen.  But  Robina  appears  to  have  taken 
a  dislike  to  him. 

I  gave  him  a  cigar,  and  we  started  for  the  house. 
It  lies  just  a  mile  from  this  cottage,  the  other  side 
of  the  wood.     One  excellent  trait  in  him  I  soon 


88  THEY  AND  I 

discovered — he    Is    intelligent    without    Knowing 
everything. 

I  confess  it  to  my  shame,  but  the  young  man 
who  knows  everything  has  come  to  pall  upon  me. 
According  to  Emerson,  this  is  a  proof  of  my  own 
intellectual  feebleness.  The  strong  man,  intel- 
lectually, cultivates  the  society  of  his  superiors. 
He  wants  to  get  on,  he  wants  to  learn  things.  If 
I  loved  knowledge  as  one  should,  I  would  have 
no  one  but  young  men  about  me.  There  was  a 
friend  of  Dick's,  a  gentleman  from  Rugby.  At 
one  time  he  had  hopes  of  me;  I  felt  he  had.  But 
he  was  too  impatient.  He  tried  to  bring  me  on 
too  quickly.  You  must  take  into  consideration 
natural  capacity.  After  listening  to  him  for  an 
hour  or  two  my  mind  would  wander.  I  could 
not  help  it.  The  careless  laughter  of  uninformed 
middle-aged  gentlemen  and  ladies  would  creep  to 
me  from  the  croquet  lawn  or  from  the  billiard- 
room.  I  longed  to  be  among  them.  Sometimes 
I  would  battle  with  my  lower  nature.  What  did 
they  know?  What  could  they  tell  me?  More 
often  I  would  succumb.  There  were  occasions 
when  I  used  to  get  up  and  go  away  from  him, 
quite  suddenly. 


THEY  AND  I  89 

I  talked  with  young  Bute  during  our  walk  about 
domestic   architecture   in   general.     He    said   he 
should  describe  the  present  tendency  in  domestic 
architecture  as  towards  corners.     The  desire  of 
the  British  public  was  to  go  into  a  corner  and 
live.     A  lady  for  whose  husband  his  firm  had 
lately  built  a  house  in  Surrey  had  propounded  to 
him  a  problem  in  connection  with  this  point.     She 
agreed   it   was   a   charming   house;   no   house   in 
Surrey  had  more  corners,    and  that   was   saying 
much.     But  she  could  not  see  how  for  the  future 
she  was  going  to  bring  up  her  children.     She  was 
a  humanely  minded  lady.     Hitherto  she  had  pun- 
ished them,  when  needful,  by  putting  them  in  the 
corner;  the  shame  of  it  had  always  exercised  upon 
them  a  salutary  effect.     But  in  the  new  house  cor- 
ners are  reckoned  the  prime  parts  of  every  room. 
It  is  the  honoured  guest  who  is  sent  into  the  cor- 
ner.    The  father  has  a  corner  sacred  to  himself, 
with  high  up  above  his  head  a  complicated  cup- 
board, wherein  with  the  help  of  a  step-ladder,  he 
may  keep  his  pipes  and  his  tobacco,  and  thus  by 
slow  degrees  cure  himself  of  the  habit  of  smoking. 
The  mother  likewise  has  her  corner,  where  stands 
her  spinning  wheel,  in  case  the  idea  comes  to  her 


90  THEY  AND  I 

to  weave  sheets  and  underclothing.  It  also  has  a 
book-shelf  supporting  thirteen  volumes,  arranged 
in  a  sloping  position  to  look  natural;  the  last  one 
maintained  at  its  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  by  a 
ginger-jar  in  old  blue  Nankin.  You  are  not  sup- 
posed to  touch  them,  because  that  would  disar- 
range them.  Besides  which,  fooling  about,  you 
might  upset  the  ginger-jar.  The  consequence  of 
all  this  is  the  corner  is  no  longer  disgraceful.  The 
parent  can  no  more  say  to  the  erring  child: 

"You  wicked  boy!  Go  into  the  cosy  corner 
this  very  minute !  " 

In  the  house  of  the  future  the  place  of  punish- 
ment will  have  to  be  the  middle  of  the  room. 
The  angry  mother  will  exclaim: 

"  Don't  you  answer  me,  you  saucy  minxl  You 
go  straight  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  don't 
you  dare  to  come  out  of  it  till  I  tell  you ! " 

The  difficulty  with  the  artistic  house  is  finding 
the  right  people  to  put  into  it.  In  the  picture 
the  artistic  room  never  has  anybody  in  it.  There 
is  a  strip  of  art  emboidery  upon  the  table,  together 
with  a  bowl  of  roses.  Upon  the  ancient  high- 
backed  settee  lies  an  item  of  fancy  work,  unfin- 
ished— just  as  she  left  it.     In  the  "study"   an 


THEY  AND  I  91 

open  book,  face  downwards,  has  been  left  on  a 
chair.  It  is  the  last  book  he  was  reading — it  has 
never  been  disturbed.  A  pipe  of  quaint  design  is 
cold  upon  the  lintel  of  the  lattice  window.  No 
one  will  ever  smoke  that  pipe  again:  it  must  have 
been  difficult  to  smoke  at  any  time.  The  sight  of 
the  artistic  room,  as  depicted  in  the  furniture  cata- 
logue, always  brings  tears  to  my  eyes.  People 
once  inhabited  these  rooms,  read  there  those  old 
volumes  bound  in  vellum,  smoked — or  tried  to 
smoke — these  impracticable  pipes;  white  hands, 
that  some  one  maybe  had  loved  to  kiss,  once  flut- 
tered among  the  folds  of  these  unfinished  antima- 
cassars, or  Berlin  wool-work  slippers,  and  went 
away,  leaving  the  thing  about. 

One  takes  it  that  the  people  who  once  occupied 
these  artistic  rooms  are  now  all  dead.  This  was 
their  "  Dining-Room."  They  sat  on  those  artistic 
chairs.  They  could  hardly  have  used  the  dinner 
service  set  out  upon  the  Elizabethan  dresser,  be- 
cause that  would  have  left  the  dresser  bare:  one 
assumes  they  had  an  extra  service  for  use,  or  else 
that  they  took  their  meals  in  the  kitchen.  The 
"  Entrance  Hall  "  is  a  singularly  chaste  apartment. 
There  is  no  necessity  for  a  door-mat:  people  with 


92  THEY  AND  I 

muddy  boots,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  were  sent  round 
to  the  back.  A  riding-cloak,  the  relic  apparently 
of  a  highwayman,  hangs  behind  the  door.  It  is 
the  sort  of  cloak  you  would  expect  to  find  there — 
a  decorative  cloak.  An  umbrella  or  a  waterproof 
cape  would  be  fatal  to  the  whole  effect. 

Now  and  again  the  illustrator  of  the  artistic 
room  will  permit  a  young  girl  to  come  and  sit 
there.  But  she  has  to  be  a  very  carefully  selected 
girl.  To  begin  with,  she  has  got  to  look  and 
dress  as  though  she  had  been  born  at  least  three 
hundred  years  ago.  She  has  got  to  have  those 
sort  of  clothes,  and  she  has  got  to  have  her  hair 
done  just  that  way. 

She  has  got  to  look  sad;  a  cheerful  girl  in  the 
artistic  room  would  jar  one's  artistic  sense.  One 
imagines  the  artist  consulting  with  the  proud  pos- 
sessor of  the  house. 

"  You  haven't  got  such  a  thing  as  a  miserable 
daughter,  have  you?  Some  fairly  good-looking 
girl  who  has  been  crossed  in  love,  or  is  misunder- 
stood. Because,  if  so,  you  might  dress  her  up  in 
something  out  of  the  local  museum  and  send  her 
along.  A  little  thing  like  that  gives  versimilitude 
to  a  design." 


THEY  AND  I  93 

She  must  not  touch  anything.  All  she  may  do 
is  to  read  a  book — not  really  read  it,  that  would 
suggest  too  much  life  and  movement:  she  sits 
with  the  book  in  her  lap  and  gazes  into  the  fire, 
if  it  happens  to  be  the  dining-room :  or  out  of  the 
window  if  it  happens  to  be  a  morning-room,  and 
the  architect  wishes  to  call  attention  to  the  win- 
dow-seat. Nothing  of  the  male  species,  as  far  as 
I  have  been  able  to  ascertain,  has  ever  entered 
these  rooms.  I  once  thought  I  had  found  a  man 
who  had  been  allowed  into  his  own  "  Smoking- 
Den,"  but  on  closer  examination  it  turned  out 
he  was  only  a  portrait. 

Sometimes  one  is  given  "  Vistas."  Doors  stand 
open,  and  you  can  see  right  away  through  "  The 
Nook"  into  the  garden.  There  is  never  a  living 
soul  about  the  place.  The  whole  family  has  been 
sent  out  for  a  walk  or  locked  up  in  the  cellars. 
This  strikes  you  as  odd  until  you  come  to  think  the 
matter  out.  The  modern  man  and  woman  is  not 
artistic.  I  am  not  artistic — not  what  I  call 
really  artistic.  I  don't  go  well  with  Gobelin  tapes- 
try and  warming-pans.  I  feel  I  don't.  Robina 
is  not  artistic,  not  in  that  sense.  I  tried  her  once 
with  a  harpsichord  I  picked  up  cheap  in  Wardour 


94  THEY  AND  I 

Street  and  a  reproduction  of  a  Roman  stool.  The 
thing  was  an  utter  failure.  A  cottage  piano,  with 
a  photo-frame  and  a  fern  upon  it  is  what  the  soul 
cries  out  for  in  connection  with  Robina.  Dick  is 
not  artistic.  Dick  does  not  go  with  peacock's 
feathers  and  guitars.  I  can  see  Dick  with  a  single 
peacock's  feather  at  St.  Gile's  Fair,  when  the  bull- 
dogs are  not  looking;  but  the  decorative  panel  of 
peacock's  feathers  is  too  much  for  him.  I  can 
imagine  him  with  a  banjo — but  a  guitar  decorated 
with  pink  ribbons!  To  begin  with  he  is  not 
dressed  for  it.  Unless  a  family  be  prepared  to 
make  themselves  up  as  troubadours  or  cavaliers 
and  to  talk  blank  verse,  I  don't  see  how  they  can 
expect  to  be  happy  living  in  these  fifteenth-century 
houses.  The  modern  family — the  old  man  in 
baggy  trousers  and  a  frock-coat  he  could  not  but- 
ton if  he  tried  to;  the  mother  of  figure  distinctly 
Victorian;  the  boys  in  flannel  suits  and  collars  up 
to  their  ears;  the  girls  in  motor  caps — are  as  in- 
congruous in  these  mediaeval  dwellings  as  a  party 
of  Cook's  tourists  drinking  bottled  beer  in  the 
streets  of  Pompeii. 

The  designer  of  "  The  Artistic  Home"  is  right 
in  keeping  to  still  life.     In  the  artistic  home — to 


THEY  AND  I  95 

paraphrase  Dr.  Watts — every  prospect  pleases 
and  only  man  is  inartistic.  In  the  picture,  the 
artistic  bedroom,  "  in  apple  green,  the  bedstead 
of  cherry-wood,  with  a  touch  of  turkey-red  through- 
out the  draperies,"  is  charming.  It  need  hardly 
be  said  the  bed  is  empty.  Put  a  man  or  woman 
in  that  cherry-wood  bed — I  don't  care  how  artistic 
they  may  think  themselves — the  charm  would  be 
gone.  The  really  artistic  party,  one  supposes,  has 
a  little  room  behind,  where  he  sleeps  and  dresses 
himself.  He  peeps  in  at  the  door  of  this  artistic 
bedroom,  maybe  occasionally  enters  to  change  the 
roses. 

Imagine  the  artistic  nursery  five  minutes  after 
the  real  child  has  been  let  loose  in  it.  I  know  a 
lady  who  once  spent  hundreds  of  pounds  on  an 
artistic  nursery.  She  showed  it  to  her  friends  with 
pride.  The  children  were  allowed  in  there  on  Sun- 
day afternoons.  I  did  an  equally  silly  thing  my- 
self not  long  ago.  Lured  by  a  furniture  catalogue, 
I  started  Robina  in  a  boudoir.  I  gave  it  to  her  as 
a  birthday  present.  We  have  both  regretted  it 
ever  since.  Robina  reckons  she  could  have  had 
a  bicycle,  a  diamond  bracelet,  and  a  mandoline, 
and  I  should  have  saved  money.     I  did  the  thing 


96  THEY  AND  I 

well.  I  told  the  furniture  people  I  wanted  it  just 
as  it  stood  in  the  picture:  "  Design  for  bedroom 
and  boudoir  combined,  suitable  for  young  girl,  in 
teak  with  sparrow  blue  hangings."  We  had 
everything:  the  antique  fire  arrangements  that 
a  vestal  virgin  might  possibly  have  understood; 
the  candlesticks,  that  were  pictures  in  themselves, 
until  we  tried  to  put  candles  in  them ;  the  book-case 
and  writing-desk  combined,  that  wasn't  big  enough 
to  write  on,  and  out  of  which  it  was  impossible 
to  get  a  book  until  you  had  abandoned  the  idea 
of  writing  and  had  closed  the  cover;  the  enclosed 
washstand,  that  shut  down  and  looked  like  an  old 
bureau,  with  the  inevitable  bowl  of  flowers  upon 
it  that  had  to  be  taken  off  and  put  on  the  floor 
whenever  you  wanted  to  use  the  thing  as  a  wash- 
stand;  the  toilet  table,  with  its  cunning  little  glass, 
just  big  enough  to  see  your  nose  in;  the  bedstead, 
hidden  away  behind  the  "  thinking  corner,"  where 
the  girl  couldn't  get  at  it  to  make  it.  A  prettier 
room  you  could  not  have  imagined,  till  Robina 
started  sleeping  in  it.  I  think  she  tried.  Girl 
friends  of  hers,  to  whom  she  had  bragged  about 
it,  would  drop  in  and  ask  to  be  allowed  to  see  it. 
Robina  would  say,  "Wait  a  minute,"  and  would 


THEY  AND  I  97 

run  up  and  slam  the  door;  and  we  would  hear  her 
for  the  next  half-hour  or  so  rushing  round  open- 
ing and  shutting  drawers  and  dragging  things 
about.  By  the  time  it  was  a  boudoir  again  she 
was  exhausted  and  irritable.  She  wants  now  to 
give  it  up  to  Veronica,  but  Veronica  objects  to  the 
position,  which  is  between  the  bathroom  and  my 
study.  Her  idea  is  a  room  more  removed,  where 
she  would  be  able  to  shut  herself  in  and  do  her 
work,  as  she  explains,  without  fear  of  interrup- 
tion. 

Young  Bute  told  me  that  a  friend  of  his,  a  well- 
to-do  young  fellow,  who  lived  in  Piccadilly,  had 
had  the  whim  to  make  his  flat  the  reproduction 
of  a  Roman  villa.  There  were  of  course  no  fires, 
the  rooms  were  warmed  by  hot  air  from  the 
kitchen.  They  had  a  cheerless  aspect  on  a  Novem- 
ber afternoon,  and  nobody  knew  exactly  where  to 
sit.  Light  was  obtained  in  the  evening  from  Gre- 
cian lamps,  which  made  it  easy  to  understand 
why  the  ancient  Athenians,  as  a  rule,  went  to  bed 
early.  You  dined  sprawling  on  a  couch.  This 
was  no  doubt  practicable  when  you  took  your  plate 
into  your  hand  and  fed  yourself  with  your  fingers; 
but  with  a  knife  and  fork  the  meal  had  all  the 


98  THEY  AND  I 

advantages  of  a  hot  picnic.  You  did  not  feel 
luxurious  or  even  wicked:  you  only  felt  nervous 
about  your  clothes.  The  thing  lacked  complete- 
ness. He  could  not  expect  his  friends  to  come 
to  him  in  Roman  togas,  and  even  his  own  man 
declined  firmly  to  wear  the  costume  of  a  Roman 
slave.  The  compromise  was  unsatisfactory,  even 
from  the  purely  pictorial  point  of  view.  You  can- 
not be  a  Roman  patrician  of  the  time  of  An- 
toninus when  you  happen  to  live  at  Piccadilly  at 
the  opening  of  the  twentieth  century.  All  you  can 
do  is  to  make  your  friends  uncomfortable  and  spoil 
their  dinner  for  them.  Young  Bute  said  that,  so 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  he  would  always  rather 
have  spent  the  evening  with  his  little  nephews  and 
nieces,  playing  at  horses;  it  seemed  to  him  a  more 
sensible  game. 

Young  Bute  said  that,  speaking  as  an  architect, 
he  of  course  admired  the  ancient  masterpieces  of 
his  art.  He  admired  the  Erechtherum  at  Athens; 
but  Spurgeon's  Tabernacle  in  the  Old  Kent  Road 
built  upon  the  same  model  would  have  irritated 
him.  For  a  Grecian  temple  you  wanted  Grecian 
skies  and  Grecian  girls.  He  said  that,  even  as  it 
was,  Westminister  Abbey  in  the  season  was  an  eye- 


THEY  AND  I  99 

sore  to  him.  The  Dean  and  Choir  in  their  white 
surplices  passed  muster,  but  the  congregation  in 
its  black  frock-coats  and  Paris  hats  gave  him  the 
same  sense  of  incongruity  as  would  a  banquet  of 
barefooted  friars  in  the  dining-hall  of  the  Can- 
non Street  Hotel. 

It  struck  me  there  was  sense  in  what  he  said. 
I  decided  not  to  mention  my  idea  of  carving  1553 
above  the  front  door. 

He  said  he  could  not  understand  this  passion 
of  the  modern  house-builder  for  playing  at  being 
a  Crusader  or  a  Canterbury  Pilgrim.  A  retired 
Berlin  boot-maker  of  his  acquaintance  had  built 
himself  a  miniature  Roman  Castle  near  Heidel- 
berg. They  played  billiards  in  the  dungeon,  and 
let  off  fireworks  on  the  Kaiser's  birthday  from 
the  roof  of  the  watch-tower. 

Another  acquaintance  of  his,  a  draper  at  Hollo- 
way,  had  built  himself  a  moated  grange.  The 
moat  was  supplied  from  the  water-works  under 
special  arrangement,  and  all  the  electric  lights 
were  imitation  candles.  He  had  done  the  thing 
thoroughly.  He  had  even  designed  a  haunted 
chamber  in  blue,  and  a  miniature  chapel,  which 
he  used  as  a  telephone  closet.     Young  Bute  had 


ioo  THEY  AND  I 

been  invited  down  there  for  the  shooting  in  the 
autumn.  He  said  he  could  not  be  sure  whether 
he  was  doing  right  or  wrong,  but  his  intention  was 
to  provide  himself  with  a  bow  and  arrows. 

A  change  was  coming  over  this  young  man.  We 
had  talked  on  other  subjects  and  he  had  been 
shy  and  deferential.  On  this  matter  of  bricks  and 
mortar  he  spoke  as  one  explaining  things. 

I  ventured  to  say  a  few  words  in  favour  of  the 
Tudor  house.  The  Tudor  house,  he  argued,  was 
a  fit  and  proper  residence  for  the  Tudor  citizen — 
for  the  man  whose  wife  rode  behind  him  on  a 
pack-saddle,  who  conducted  his  correspondence  by 
the  help  of  a  moss-trooper.  The  Tudor  fireplace 
was  designed  for  folks  to  whom  coal  was  unknown, 
and  who  left  their  smoking  to  their  chimneys.  A 
house  that  looked  ridiculous  with  a  motor-car  be- 
fore the  door,  where  the  electric  bell  jarred  upon 
one's  sense  of  fitness  every  time  one  hard  it,  was 
out  of  date,  he  maintained. 

"  For  you,  sir,"  he  continued,  "  a  twentieth-cen- 
tury writer,  to  build  yourself  a  Tudor  House 
would  be  as  absurd  as  for  Ben  Jonson  to  have 
planned  himself  a  Norman  Castle  with  a  torture- 
chamber  underneath  the  wine-cellar,  and  the  fire- 


THEY  AND  1  iQi 

place  in  the  middle  of  the  dining-hall..  :  His  fel- 
low cronies  of  the  Mermaid  would  have  thought 
him  stark,  staring  mad." 

There  was  reason  in  what  he  was  saying.  I 
decided  not  to  mention  my  idea  of  altering  the 
chimneys  and  fixing  up  imitation  gables,  especially 
as  young  Bute  seemed  pleased  with  the  house, 
which  by  this  time  we  had  reached. 

"  Now,  that  is  a  good  house,"  said  young  Bute. 
"  That  is  a  house  where  a  man  in  a  frock-coat  and 
trousers  can  sit  down  and  not  feel  himself  a 
stranger  from  another  age.  It  was  built  for  a 
man  who  wore  a  frock-coat  and  trousers — on  week- 
days, maybe  gaiters  and  a  shooting-coat.  You  can 
enjoy  a  game  of  billiards  in  that  house  without 
the  feeling  that  comes  to  you  when  playing  tennis 
in  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramids." 

We  entered  and  I  put  before  him  my  notions — 
such  of  them  as  I  felt  he  would  approve.  We 
were  some  time  about  the  business,  and  when  we 
looked  at  our  watches  young  Bute's  last  train  to 
town  had  gone.  There  still  remained  much  to 
talk  about,  and  I  suggested  he  should  return  with 
me  to  the  cottage  and  take  his  luck.  I  could  sleep 
with  Dick  and  he  could  have  my  room.     I  told 


102  THEY  AND  I 

him  about  the  cow,  but  he  said  he  was  a  practised 
sleeper  and  would  be  delighted,  if  I  could  lend  him 
a  night-shirt,  and  if  I  thought  Miss  Robina  would 
not  be  put  out.  I  assured  him  that  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  for  Robina;  the  unexpected  guest 
would  be  a  useful  lesson  to  her  in  housekeeping. 
Besides,  as  I  pointed  out  to  him,  it  didn't  really 
matter  even  if  Robina  were  put  out. 

"  Not  to  you,  sir,  perhaps,"  he  answered  with 
a  smile.  "  It  is  not  with  you  that  she  will  be  in- 
dignant." 

"  That  will  be  all  right,  my  boy,"  I  told  him; 
M  I  take  all  responsibility." 

"  And  I  shall  get  all  the  blame,"  he  laughed. 

But,  as  I  pointed  out  to  him,  it  really  didn't 
matter  whom  Robina  blamed.  We  talked  about 
women  generally  on  our  way  back.  I  told  him — 
impressing  upon  him  there  was  no  need  for  it  to 
go  farther — that  I  personally  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  best  way  to  deal  with  women 
was  to  treat  them  all  as  children.  He  agreed  it 
might  be  a  good  method,  but  wanted  to  know 
what  you  did  when  they  treated  you  as  a  child. 

I  know  a  most  delightful  couple:  they  have  been 
married  nearly  twenty  years,  and  both  will  assure 


THEY  AND  I  103 

you  that  an  angry  word  has  never  passed  between 
them.  He  calls  her  his  "  Little  One,"  although 
she  must  be  quite  six  inches  taller  than  himself, 
and  is  never  tired  of  patting  her  hand  or  pinching 
her  ear.  They  asked  her  once  in  the  drawing- 
room — so  the  Little  Mother  tells  me — her  recipe 
for  domestic  bliss.  She  said  the  mistake  most 
women  made  was  taking  men  too  seriously. 

"They  are  just  overgrown  children,  that's  all 
they  are,  poor  dears,"  she  laughed. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  love:  there  is  the  love 
that  kneels  and  looks  upward,  and  the  love  that 
looks  down  and  pats.  For  durability  I  am  pre- 
pared to  back  the  latter. 

The  architect  had  died  out  of  young  Bute;  he 
was  again  a  shy  young  man  during  our  walk  back 
to  the  cottage.  My  hand  was  on  the  latch  when 
he  stayed  me. 

"Isn't  this  the  back  door  again,  sir?"  he  en- 
quired. 

It  was  the  back  door;  I  had  not  noticed  it. 

11  Hadn't  we  better  go  round  to  the  front,  sir, 
don't  you  think?"  he  said. 

"  It  doesn't  matter "  I  began. 

But  he  had  disappeared.     So  I  followed  him, 


io4  THEY  AND  I 

and  we  entered  by  the  front.  Robina  was  stand- 
ing by  the  table,  peeling  potatoes. 

11 1  have  brought  Mr.  Bute  back  with  me,"  I 
explained.     "He  is  going  to  stop  the  night." 

Robina  said:  "If  ever  I  go  to  live  in  a  cot- 
tage again  it  will  have  one  door."  She  took  her 
potatoes  with  her  and  went  upstairs. 

11 1  do  hope  she  isn't  put  out,"  said  young 
Bute. 

"  Don't  worry  yourself,"  I  comforted  him. 
"  Of  course  she  isn't  put  out.  Besides,  I  don't 
care  if  she  is.  She's  got  to  get  used  to  being  put 
out;  it's  part  of  the  lesson  of  life." 

I  took  him  upstairs,  meaning  to  show  him  his 
bedroom  and  take  my  own  things  out  of  it.  The 
doors  of  the  two  bedrooms  were  opposite  one 
another.  I  made  a  mistake  and  opened  the  wrong 
door.  Robina,  still  peeling  potatoes,  was  sitting 
on  the  bed. 

I  explained  we  had  made  a  mistake.  Robina 
said  it  was  of  no  consequence  whatever,  and  tak- 
ing the  potatoes  with  her,  went  downstairs  again. 
Looking  out  of  the  window,  I  saw  her  making 
towards  the  wood.  She  was  taking  the  potatoes 
with  her. 


THEY  AND  I  105 

"  I  do  wish  we  hadn't  opened  the  door  of  the 
wrong  room,"  groaned  young  Bute. 

"  What  a  worrying  chap  you  are !  "  I  said  to 
him.  "  Look  at  the  thing  from  the  humorous 
point  of  view.  It's  funny  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it.  Wherever  the  poor  girl  goes,  trying  to 
peel  her  potatoes  in  peace  and  quietness,  we  burst 
in  upon  her.  What  we  ought  to  do  now  is  to  take 
a  walk  in  the  wood.  It  is  a  pretty  wood.  We 
might  say  we  had  come  to  pick  wild  flowers." 

But  I  could  not  persuade  him.  He  said  he  had 
letters  to  write,  and,  if  I  would  allow  him,  would 
remain  in  his  room  till  dinner  was  ready. 

Dick  and  Veronica  came  in  a  little  later.  Dick 
had  been  to  see  Mr.  St.  Leonard  to  arrange  about 
lessons  in  farming.  He  said  he  thought  I  should 
like  the  old  man,  who  wasn't  a  bit  like  a  farmer. 
He  had  brought  Veronica  back  in  one  of  her  good 
moods,  she  having  met  there  and  fallen  in  love 
with  a  donkey.  Dick  confided  to  me  that,  with- 
out committing  himself,  he  had  hinted  to  Veronica 
that  if  she  would  remain  good  for  quite  a  long 
while  I  might  be  induced  to  buy  it  for  her.  It 
was  a  sturdy  little  animal,  and  could  be  made  use- 
ful.   Anyhow,  it  would  give  Veronica  an  object 


106  THEY  AND  I 

in  life — something  to  strive  for — which  was  just 
what  she  wanted.  He  is  a  thoughtful  lad  at  times, 
is  Dick. 

The  dinner  was  more  successful  than  I  had 
hoped  for.  Robina  gave  us  a  melon  as  a  hors 
d'amvre,  followed  by  sardines  and  a  fowl,  with 
potatoes  and  vegetable  marrow.  Her  cooking 
surprised  me.  I  had  warned  young  Bute  that  it 
might  be  necessary  to  regard  this  dinner  rather  as 
a  joke  than  as  an  evening  meal,  and  was  prepared 
myself  to  extract  amusement  from  it  rather  than 
nourishment.  My  disappointment  was  agreeable. 
One  can  always  imagine  a  comic  dinner. 

I  dined  once  with  a  newly  married  couple  who 
had  just  returned  from  their  honeymoon.  We 
ought  to  have  sat  down  at  eight  o'clock;  we  sat 
down  instead  at  half-past  ten.  The  cook  had 
started  drinking  in  the  morning;  by  seven  o'clock 
she  was  speechless.  The  wife,  giving  up  hope  at 
a  quarter  to  eight,  had  cooked  the  dinner  herself. 
The  other  guests  were  sympathised  with,  but  all 
I  got  was  congratulation. 

"  He'll  write  something  so  funny  about  this  din- 
ner," they  said. 

You  might  have  thought  the  cook  had  got  drunk 


THEY  AND  I  107 

on  purpose  to  oblige  me.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  write  anything  funny  about  that  dinner;  it  de- 
presses me  to  this  day,  merely  thinking  of  it. 

We  finished  up  with  a  cold  trifle  and  some  ex- 
cellent coffee  that  Robina  brewed  over  a  lamp  on 
the  table  while  Dick  and  Veronica  cleared  away. 
It  was  one  of  the  jolliest  little  dinners  I  have  ever 
eaten;  and,  if  Robina's  figures  are  to  be  trusted, 
cost  exactly  six-and-fourpence  for  the  five  of  us. 
There  being  no  servants  about,  we  talked  freely 
and  enjoyed  ourselves.  I  began  once  at  a  dinner 
to  tell  a  good  story  about  a  Scotchman,  when  my 
host  silenced  me  with  a  look.  He  is  a  kindly  man, 
and  had  heard  the  story  before.  He  explained  to 
me  afterwards,  over  the  walnuts,  that  his  parlour- 
maid was  Scotch  and  rather  touchy.  The  talk 
fell  into  the  discussion  of  Home  Rule,  and  again 
our  host  silenced  us.  It  seemed  his  butler  was  an 
Irishman  and  a  violent  Parnellite.  Some  people 
can  talk  as  though  servants  were  mere  machines, 
but  to  me  they  are  human  beings,  and  their  pres- 
ence hampers  me.  I  know  my  guests  have  not 
heard  the  story  before,  and  from  one's  own  flesh 
and  blood  one  expects  a  certain  amount  of  sacri- 
fice.    But  I  feel  so  sorry  for  the  housemaid  who 


108  THEY  AND  I 

is  waiting;  she  must  have  heard  it  a  dozen  times. 
I  really  cannot  inflict  it  upon  her  again. 

After  dinner  we  pushed  the  table  into  a  corner, 
and  Dick  extracted  a  sort  of  waltz  from  Robina's 
mandoline.  It  is  years  since  I  danced;  but  Veron- 
ica said  she  would  rather  dance  with  me  any  day 
than  with  some  of  the  "  lumps  "  you  were  given 
to  drag  round  by  the  dancing-mistress.  I  have 
half  a  mind  to  take  it  up  again.  After  all,  a  man 
is  only  as  old  as  he  feels. 

Young  Bute,  it  turned  out,  was  a  capital  dancer, 
and  could  even  reverse,  which  in  a  room  fourteen 
feet  square  is  of  advantage.  Robina  confided  to 
me  after  he  was  gone  that  while  he  was  dancing 
she  could  just  tolerate  him.  I  cannot  myself  see 
rhyme  or  reason  in  Robina's  objection  to  him. 
He  is  not  handsome,  but  he  is  good-looking,  as 
boys  go,  and  has  a  pleasant  smile.  Robina  says  it 
is  his  smile  that  maddens  her.  Dick  agrees  with 
me  that  there  is  sense  in  him;  and  Veronica,  not 
given  to  loose  praise,  considers  his  performance 
of  a  Red  Indian,  both  dead  and  alive,  the  finest 
piece  of  acting  she  has  ever  encountered.  We 
wound  up  the  evening  with  a  little  singing.  The 
extent  of  Dick's  repertoire  surprised  me ;  evidently 


THEY  AND  I  109 

he  has  not  been  so  idle  at  Cambridge  as  it  seemed. 
Young  Bute  has  a  baritone  voice  of  some  richness. 
We  remembered  at  quarter-past  eleven  that  Veron- 
ica ought  to  have  gone  to  bed  at  eight.  We  were 
all  of  us  surprised  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 

"  Why  can't  we  always  live  in  a  cottage  and  do 
just  as  we  like?  I'm  sure  it's  much  jollier," 
Veronica  put  it  to  me  as  I  kissed  her  good-night. 

"  Because  we  are  idiots,  most  of  us,  Veronica," 
I  answered. 


CHAPTER  V 

I  started  the  next  morning  to  call  upon  St. 
Leonard.  Near  to  the  house  I  encountered  young 
Hopkins  on  a  horse.  He  was  waving  a  pitchfork 
over  his  head  and  reciting  "  The  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade."  The  horse  looked  amused.  He 
told  me  I  should  find  "  the  gov'nor "  up  by  the 
stables.  St.  Leonard  is  not  an  "  old  man."  Dick 
must  have  seen  him  in  a  bad  light.  I  should  de- 
scribe him  as  about  the  prime  of  life,  a  little  older 
than  myself,  but  nothing  to  speak  of.  Dick  was 
right,  however,  in  saying  he  was  not  like  a  farmer. 
To  begin  with,  "  Hubert  St.  Leonard  "  does  not 
sound  like  a  farmer.  One  can  imagine  a  man  with 
a  name  like  that  writing  a  book  about  farming, 
having  theories  on  this  subject.  But  in  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  nature  things  would  not  grow  for 
him.  He  does  not  look  like  a  farmer.  One  can- 
not precisely  say  what  it  is,  but  there  is  that  about 
a  farmer  that  tells  you  he  is  a  farmer.  The  farmer 
has  a  way  of  leaning  over  a  gate.  There  are  not 
many  ways  of  leaning  over  a  gate.     I  have  tried 


THEY  AND  I  in 

all  I  could  think  of,  but  it  was  never  quite  the 
right  way.  It  has  to  be  in  the  blood.  A  farmer 
has  a  way  of  standing  on  one  leg  and  looking  at  a 
thing  that  isn't  there.  It  sounds  simple,  but  there 
is  knack  in  it.  The  farmer  is  not  surprised  it  is 
not  there.  He  never  expected  it  to  be  there.  It 
is  one  of  those  things  that  ought  to  be,  and  is 
not.  The  farmer's  life  is  full  of  such.  Suffering 
reduced  to  a  science  is  what  the  farmer  stands  for. 
All  his  life  he  is  the  good  man  struggling  against 
adversity.  Nothing  his  way  comes  right.  This 
does  not  seem  to  be  his  planet.  Providence  means 
well,  but  she  does  not  understand  farming.  She 
is  doing  her  best,  he  supposes;  that  she  is  a  born 
muddler  is  not  her  fault.  If  Providence  could 
only  step  down  for  a  month  or  two  and  take  a 
few  lessons  in  practical  farming,  things  might  be 
better;  but  this  being  out  of  the  question  there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  From  conversation  with 
farmers  one  conjures  up  a  picture  of  Providence 
as  a  well-intentioned  amateur,  put  into  a  position 
for  which  she  is  utterly  unsuited. 

"  Rain,"  says  Providence,  "  they  are  wanting 
rain.    What  did  I  do  with  that  rain  ?  " 

She  finds  the  rain  and  starts  it,  and  is  pleased 


ii2  THEY  AND  I 

with  herself  until  some  Wandering  Spirit  pauses 
on  his  way  and  asks  her  sarcastically  what  she 
thinks  she's  doing. 

"  Raining,"  explains  Providence.  "  They  wanted 
rain — farmers,  you  know,  those  sort  of  people." 

"  They  won't  want  anything  for  long,"  retorts 
the  Spirit.  "  They'll  be  drowned  in  their  beds  be- 
fore you've  done  with  them." 

"Don't  say  that!"  says  Providence. 

"  Well,  have  a  look  for  yourself  if  you  won't 
believe  me,"  says  the  Spirit.  "  You've  spoilt  that 
harvest  again,  you've  ruined  all  the  fruit,  and  you 
are  rotting  even  the  turnips.  Don't  you  ever  learn 
by  experience?" 

"  It  is  so  difficult,"  says  Providence,  "  to  regu- 
late these  things  just  right." 

"  So  it  seems — for  you,"  retorts  the  Spirit. 
"  Anyhow,  I  should  not  rain  any  more,  if  I  were 
you.  If  you  must,  at  least  give  them  time  to  build 
another  ark."  And  the  Wandering  Spirit  con- 
tinues on  his  way. 

"  The  place  does  look  a  bit  wet,  now  I  come  to 
notice  it,"  says  Providence,  peeping  down  over 
the  edge  of  her  star.  "Better  turn  on  the  fine 
weather,  I  suppose." 


THEY  AND  I  113 

She  starts  what  6he  calls  "  set  fair,"  and  feel- 
ing now  that  she  is  something  like  a  Providence, 
composes  herself  for  a  doze.  She  is  startled  out 
of  her  sleep  by  the  return  of  the  Wandering  Spirit. 

"  Been  down  there  again?  "  she  asks  him  pleas- 
antly. 

"Just  come  back,"  explains  the  Wandering 
Spirit. 

"Pretty  spot,  isn't  it?"  says-  Providence. 
"  Things  nice  and  dry  down  there  now,  aren't 
they?" 

"You've  hit  it,"  he  answers.  "Dry  is  the 
word.  The  rivers  are  dried  up,  the  wells  are  dried 
up,  the  cattle  are  dying,  the  grass  is  all  withered. 
As  for  the  harvest,  there  won't  be  any  harvest  for 
the  next  two  years!  Oh,  yes,  things  are  dry 
enough." 

One  imagines  Providence  bursting  into  tears. 
"  But  you  suggested  yourself  a  little  fine  weather." 

"  I  know  I  did,"  answers  the  Spirit.  "  I  didn't 
suggest  a  six  months'  drought  with  the  thermom- 
eter at  a  hundred  and  twenty  in  the  shade.  Doesn't 
seem  to  me  that  you've  got  any  sense  at  all." 

"  I  do  wish  this  job  had  been  given  to  someone 
else,"  says  Providence. 


ii4  THEY  AND  I 

"  Yes,  and  you  are  not  the  only  one  to  wish  It," 
retorts  the  Spirit  unfeelingly. 

"  I  do  my  best,"  urges  Providence,  wiping  her 
eyes  with  her  wings.     "  I  am  not  fitted  for  it." 

11  A  truer  word  you  never  uttered,"  retorts  the 
Spirit. 

"  I  try — nobody  could  try  harder,"  wails  Provi- 
dence,    "  Everything  I  do  seems  to  be  wrong." 

"  What  you  want,"  say  the  Spirit,  "  is  less  en- 
thusiasm and  a  little  common-sense  in  place  of  it. 
You  get  excited,  and  then  you  lose  your  head. 
When  you  do  send  rain,  ten  to  one  you  send  it 
when  it  isn't  wanted.  You  keep  back  your  sun- 
shine— just  as  a  duffer  at  whist  keeps  back  his 
trumps — until  it  is  no  good,  and  then  you  deal  it 
out  all  at  once." 

"  I'll  try  again,"  said  Providence.  "  I'll  try 
quite  hard  this  time." 

"You've  been  trying  again,"  retorts  the  Spirit 
unsympathetically,  "  ever  since  I  have  known  you. 
It  is  not  that  you  do  not  try.  It  is  that  you  have 
not  got  the  hang  of  things.  Why  don't  you  get 
yourself  an  almanack?" 

The  Wandering  Spirit  takes  his  leave.  Provi- 
dence tells   herself  she   really  must  get  that  al- 


THEY  AND  I  115 

manack.  She  ties  a  knot  in  her  handkerchief.  It 
is  not  her  fault:  she  was  made  like  it.  She  forgets 
altogether  for  what  reason  she  tied  that  knot. 
Thinks  it  was  to  remind  her  to  send  frosts  in  May, 
or  Scotch  mists  in  August.  She  is  not  sure  which, 
so  sends  both.  The  farmer  has  ceased  even  to  be 
angry  with  her — recognises  that  affliction  and  sor- 
row are  good  for  his  immortal  soul,  and  pursues 
his  way  in  calmness  to  the  Bankruptcy  Court. 

Hubert  St.  Leonard,  of  Windrush  Bottom 
Farm,  I  found  to  be  a  worried-looking  gentleman. 
He  taps  his  weather-glass  and  hopes  and  fears, 
not  knowing  as  yet  that  all  things  have  been  or- 
dered for  his  ill.  It  will  be  years  before  his  spirit 
is  attuned  to  that  attitude  of  tranquil  despair  es- 
sential to  the  farmer:  one  feels  it.  He  is  tall  and 
thin,  with  a  sensitive,  mobile  face,  and  a  curious 
trick  of  taking  his  head  every  now  and  again  be- 
tween his  hands,  as  if  to  be  sure  it  is  still  there. 
When  I  met  him  he  was  on  the  point  of  starting 
for  his  round,  so  I  walked  with  him.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  not  always  been  a  farmer.  Till  a 
few  years  ago  he  had  been  a  stockbroker.  But 
he  had  always  hated  his  office;  and  having  saved 
a  little,  had  determined  when  he  came  to  forty, 


n6  THEY  AND  I 

to  enjoy  the  rare  luxury  of  living  his  own  life.  I 
asked  him  if  he  found  that  farming  paid.  He 
said: 

"  As  in  everything  else,  it  depends  upon  the 
price  you  put  upon  yourself.  Now,  as  a  casual 
observer,  what  wage  per  annum  would  you  say 
I  was  worth?  " 

It  was  an  awkward  question. 

"  You  are  afraid  that  if  you  spoke  candidly  you 
would  offend  me,"  he  suggested.  "  Very  well. 
For  the  purpose  of  explaining  my  theory  let  us 
take,  instead,  your  own  case.  I  have  read  all 
your  books,  and  I  like  them.  Speaking  as  an  ad- 
mirer, I  should  estimate  you  at  five  hundred  a 
year.  You,  perhaps,  make  two  thousand,  and 
consider  yourself  worth  five." 

The  whimsical  smile  with  which  he  accompanied 
the  speech  disarmed  me. 

"What  we  most  of  us  do,"  he  continued,  "is 
to  over-capitalise  ourselves.  John  Smith,  honestly 
worth  a  hundred  a  year,  claims  to  be  worth  two. 
Result:  difficulty  of  earning  dividend,  over-work, 
over-worry,  constant  fear  of  being  wound  up. 
Now,  there  is  that  about  your  work  that  suggests 
to  me  you  would  be  happier  earning  five  hundred 


THEY  AND  I  117 

a  year  than  you  ever  will  be  earning  two  thou- 
sand. To  pay  your  dividend — to  earn  your  two 
thousand — you  have  to  do  work  that  brings  you 
no  pleasure  in  doing.  Content  with  five  hundred, 
you  could  afford  to  do  only  that  work  that  does 
give  you  pleasure.  This  is  not  a  perfect  world, 
we  must  remember.  In  the  perfect  world  the 
thinker  would  be  worth  more  than  the  mere 
jester.  In  the  perfect  world  the  farmer  would  be 
worth  more  than  the  stockbroker.  In  making  the 
exchange  I  had  to  write  myself  down.  I  earn 
less  money,  but  get  more  enjoyment  out  of  life. 
I  used  to  be  able  to  afford  champagne,  but  my 
liver  was  always  wrong  and  I  dared  not  drink  it. 
Now  I  cannot  afford  champagne,  but  I  enjoy  my 
beer.  That  is  my  theory,  that  we  are  all  of  us 
entitled  to  payment  according  to  our  market  value, 
neither  more  nor  less.  You  can  take  it  all  in  cash. 
I  used  to.  Or  you  can  take  less  cash  and  more 
fun :  that  is  what  I  am  getting  now." 

"  It  is  delightful,"  I  said,  "  to  meet  with  a  phi- 
losopher. One  hears  about  them,  of  course;  but  I 
had  got  it  into  my  mind  they  were  all  dead." 

"  People  laugh  at  philosophy,"  he  said.  "  I 
never  could  understand  why.     It  is  the  science  of 


n8  THEY  AND  I 

living  a  free,  peaceful,  happy  existence.  I  would 
give  half  my  remaining  years  to  be  a  philosopher." 

11 1  am  not  laughing  at  philosophy,"  I  said.  "  I 
honestly  thought  you  were  a  philosopher.  I 
judged  so  from  the  way  you  talked." 

"Talked!  "  he  retorted.  "Anybody  can  talk. 
As  you  have  just  said,  I  talk  like  a  philosopher." 

"  But  you  not  only  talk,"  I  insisted,  "  you  be- 
have like  a  philosopher.  Sacrificing  your  income 
to  the  joy  of  living  your  own  life !  It  is  the  act  of  a 
philosopher." 

I  wanted  to  keep  him  in  good  humour.  I  had 
three  things  to  talk  to  him  about:  the  cow,  the 
donkey,  and  Dick. 

"No,  it  wasn't,"  he  answered.  "A  philos- 
opher would  have  remained  a  stockbroker  and 
been  just  as  happy.  Philosophy  does  not  depend 
upon  environment.  You  put  the  philosopher  down 
anywhere.  It  is  all  the  same  to  him,  he  takes  his 
philosophy  with  him.  You  can  suddenly  tell  him 
he  is  an  emperor,  or  give  him  penal  servitude  for 
life.  He  goes  on  being  a  philosopher  just  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  We  have  an  old  Tom  cat. 
The  children  lead  it  an  awful  life.  It  does  not 
seem  to  matter  to  the  cat.    They  shut  it  up  in  the 


THEX  AND  I  119 

piano:  their  idea  is  that  it  will  make  a  noise  and 
frighten  someone.  It  doesn't  make  a  noise;  it 
goes  to  sleep.  When  an  hour  later  someone  opens 
the  piano,  the  poor  thing  is  lying  there  stretched 
out  upon  the  keyboard  purring  to  itself.  They 
dress  it  up  in  the  baby's  clothes  and  take  it  out  in 
the  perambulator:  it  lies  there  perfectly  contented 
looking  round  at  the  scenery — takes  in  the  fresh 
air.  They  haul  it  about  by  its  tail.  You  would 
think,  to  watch  it  swinging  gently  to  and  fro  head 
downwards,  that  it  was  grateful  to  them  for  giv- 
ing it  a  new  sensation.  Apparently  it  looks  on 
everything  that  comes  its  way  as  helpful  experi- 
ence. It  lost  a  leg  last  winter  in  a  trap:  it  goes 
about  quite  cheerfully  on  three.  Seems  to  be 
rather  pleased,  if  anything,  at  having  lost  the 
fourth — saves  washing.  Now,  he  is  your  true 
philosopher,  that  cat;  never  minds  what  happens 
to  him,  and  is  equally  contented  if  it  doesn't." 

I  found  myself  becoming  fretful.  I  know  a  man 
with  whom  it  is  impossible  to  disagree.  Men  at 
the  Club — new-comers — have  been  lured  into  tak- 
ing bets  that  they  could  on  any  topic  under  the 
sun  find  themselves  out  of  sympathy  with  him. 
They  have   denounced   Mr.   Lloyd  George   as   a 


120  THEY  AND  I 

traitor  to  his  country.  This  man  has  risen  and 
shaken  them  by  the  hand,  words  being  too  weak 
to  express  his  admiration  of  their  outspoken  fear- 
lessness. You  might  have  thought  them  Nihilists 
denouncing  the  Russian  Government  from  the 
steps  of  the  Kremlin  at  Moscow.  They  have,  in 
the  next  breath,  abused  Mr.  Balfour  in  terms 
transgressing  the  law  of  slander.  He  has  almost 
fallen  on  their  necks.  It  has  transpired  that  the 
one  dream  of  his  life  was  to  hear  Mr.  Balfour 
abused.  I  have  talked  to  him  myself  for  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour,  and  gathered  that  at  heart  he  was 
a  peace-at-any-price  man,  strongly  in  favour  of 
Conscription,  a  vehement  Republican,  with  a  deep- 
rooted  contempt  for  the  working  classes.  It  is  not 
bad  sport  to  collect  half  a  dozen  and  talk  round 
him.  At  such  times  he  6uggests  the  family  dog 
that  six  people  from  different  parts  of  the  house 
are  calling  to  at  the  same  time.  He  wants  to  go 
to  them  all  at  once. 

I  felt  I  had  got  to  understand  this  man,  or  he 
would  worry  me. 

"  We  are  going  to  be  neighbours,"  I  said,  "  and 
I  am  inclined  to  think  I  shall  like  you.  That  is, 
if  I  can  get  to  know  you.    You  commence  by  en- 


THEY  AND  I  121 

thusing  on  philosophy :  I  hasten  to  agree  with  you. 
It  is  a  noble  science.  When  my  youngest  daugh- 
ter has  grown  up,  when  the  other  one  has  learnt 
a  little  sense,  when  Dick  is  off  my  hands,  and 
the  British  public  has  come  to  appreciate  good 
literature,  I  am  hoping  to  be  a  bit  of  a  philosopher 
myself.  But  before  I  can  explain  to  you  my  views 
you  have  already  changed  your  own,  and  are  liken- 
ing the  philosopher  to  an  old  tom-cat  that  seems 
to  be  weak  in  his  head.  Soberly  now,  what  are 
you?" 

"  A  fool,"  he  answered  promptly;  "a  most  un- 
fortunate fool.  I  have  the  mind  of  a  philosopher 
coupled  to  an  intensely  irritable  temperament. 
My  philosophy  teaches  me  to  be  ashamed  of  my 
irritability,  and  my  irritability  makes  my  philoso- 
phy appear  to  be  arrant  nonsense  to  myself.  The 
philosopher  in  me  tells  me  it  does  not  matter  when 
the  twins  fall  down  the  wishing-well.  It  is  not 
a  deep  well.  It  is  not  the  first  time  they  have 
fallen  into  it:  it  will  not  be  the  last.  Such  things 
pass:  the  philosopher  only  smiles.  The  man  in 
me  calls  the  philosopher  a  blithering  idiot  for 
saying  it  does  not  matter  when  it  does  matter. 
Men  have  to  be  called  away  from  their  work  to 


122  THEY  AND  I 

haul  them  out.  We  all  of  us  get  wet.  I  get  wet 
and  excited,  and  that  always  starts  my  liver.  The 
children's  clothes  are  utterly  spoilt.  Confound 
them," — the  blood  was  mounting  to  his  head — 
"  they  never  care  to  go  near  the  well  except  they 
are  dressed  in  their  best  clothes.  On  other  days 
they  will  stop  indoors  and  read  Foxe's  '  Book  of 
Martyrs.'  There  is  something  uncanny  about 
twins.  What  is  it?  Why  should  twins  be  worse 
than  other  children?  The  ordinary  child  is  not 
an  angel,  Heaven  knows.  Take  these  boots  of 
mine.  Look  at  them;  I  have  had  them  for  over 
two  years.  I  tramp  ten  miles  day  in  them;  they 
have  been  soaked  through  a  hundred  times.  You 
buy  a  boy  a  pair  of  boots " 

"  Why  don't  you  cover  over  the  well?  "  I  sug- 
gested. 

"There  you  are  again,"  he  replied.  "The 
philosopher  in  me — the  sensible  man — says, 
'  What  is  the  good  of  the  well?  It  is  nothing  but 
mud  and  rubbish.  Something  is  always  falling 
into  it — if  it  isn't  the  children  it's  the  pigs.  Why 
not  do  away  with  it?  '  " 

"  Seems  to  be  sound  advice,"  I  commented. 

"  It  is,"  he  agreed.     "  No  man  alive  has  more 


THEY  AND  I  123 

sound  common-sense  than  I  have,  if  only  I  were 
capable  of  listening  to  myself.  Do  you  know  why 
I  don't  brick  in  that  well?  Because  my  wife  told 
me  I  would  have  to.  It  was  the  first  thing  she 
said  when  she  saw  it.  She  says  it  again  every 
time  anything  falls  into  it.  '  If  only  you  would 
take  my  advice ' — you  know  the  sort  of  thing. 
Nobody  irritates  me  more  than  the  person  who 
says,  'I  told  you  so.'  It's  a  picturesque  old  ruin: 
it  used  to  be  haunted.  That's  all  been  knocked 
on  the  head  since  we  came.  What  self-respecting 
nymph  can  haunt  a  well  into  which  children  and 
pigs  are  forever  flopping?" 

He  laughed;  but  before  I  could  join  him  he 
was  angry  again.  "  Why  should  I  block  up  an 
historic  well,  that  is  an  ornament  to  the  garden, 
because  a  pack  of  fools  can't  keep  a  gate  shut? 
As  for  the  children,  what  they  want  is  a  thorough 
good  whipping,  and  one  of  these  days " 

A  voice  crying  to  us  to  stop  interrupted  him. 

"  Am  on  my  round.     Can't  come,"  he  shouted. 

"  But  you  must,"  explained  the  voice. 

He  turned  so  quickly  that  he  almost  ran  me 
over.  "  Bother  and  confound  them  all !  "  he  said. 
"  Why  don't  they  keep  to  the  time-table?    There's 


i24  THEY  AND  I 

no  system  in  this  place.  That  is  what  ruins  farm- 
ing— want  of  system." 

He  went  on  grumbling  as  he  walked.  I  fol- 
lowed him.  Halfway  across  the  field  we  met  the 
owner  of  the  voice.  She  was  a  pleasant-looking 
lass,  not  exactly  pretty — not  the  sort  of  a  girl  one 
turns  to  look  at  in  a  crowd — yet,  having  seen  her, 
it  was  agreeable  to  continue  looking  at  her.  St. 
Leonard  introduced  me  to  her  as  his  eldest  daugh- 
ter, Janie,  and  explained  to  her  that  behind  the 
study  door,  if  only  she  would  take  the  trouble  to 
look,  she  would  find  a  time-table 

"According  to  which,"  replied  Miss  Janie,  with 
a  smile,  "  you  ought  at  the  present  moment  to  be 
in  the  rick-yard,  which  is  just  where  I  want 
you." 

"  What  time  is  it?  "  he  asked,  feeling  his  waist- 
coat for  a  watch  that  appeared  not  to  be  there. 

"  Quarter  to  eleven,"  I  told  him. 

He  took  his  head  between  his  hands.  "  Good 
God!"  he  cried,  "you  don't  say  that!" 

The  new  binder,  Miss  Janie  told  us,  had  just 
arrived.  She  was  anxious  her  father  should  see 
it  was  in  working  order  before  the  men  went  back. 
"  Otherwise,"  so  she  argued,  "  old  Wilkins  will 


THEY  AND  I  125 

persist  it  was  all    right  when  he  delivered  it,  and 
we  shall  have  no  remedy." 
We  turned  towards  the  house. 
"Speaking  of   the   practical,"    I   said,    "there 
were  three  things  I  came  to  talk  to  you  about. 
First  and  foremost,  that  cow." 

"Ah,  yes,  the  cow,"  said  St.  Leonard.  He 
turned  to  his  daughter.  "  It  was  Maud,  was  it 
not?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  was  Susie." 

"  It  is  one,"  I  said,  "  that  bellows  most  all  night 
and  three  parts  of  the  day.  Your  boy  Hopkins 
thinks  maybe  she's  fretting." 

"Poor  soul!"  said  St.  Leonard.  "We  only 
took  her  calf  away  from  her — when  did  we  take 
her  calf  away  from  her?  "  he  asked  of  Janie. 

"  On  Thursday  morning,"  returned  Janie;  "the 
day  we  sent  her  over." 

"They  feel  it  so  at  first,"  said  St.  Leonard  sym- 
pathetically. 

"It  sounds  a  brutal  sentiment,"  I  said,  "but 
I  was  wondering  if  by  any  chance  you  happened 
to  have  by  you  one  that  didn't  feel  it  quite  so 
much.  I  suppose  among  cows  there  is  no  class 
that   corresponds   to  what  we   term   our  '  Smart 


126  THEY,  AND  I 

Set ' — cows  that  don't  really  care  for  their  calves, 
that  are  glad  to  get  away  from  them?  " 

Miss  Janie  smiled.  When  she  smiled,  you  felt 
you  would  do  much  to  see  her  smile  again. 

"  But  why  not  keep  it  up  at  your  house  in  the 
paddock,"  she  suggested,  "  and  have  the  milk 
brought  down?  There  is  an  excellent  cowshed, 
and  it  is  only  a  mile  away." 

It  struck  me  there  was  sense  in  this  idea.  I 
had  not  thought  of  that.  I  asked  St.  Leonard 
what  I  owed  him  for  the  cow.  He  asked  Miss 
Janie,  and  she  said  sixteen  pounds.  I  had  been 
warned  that  in  doing  business  with  farmers  it 
would  be  necessary  always  to  bargain;  but  there 
was  that  about  Miss  Janie's  tone  telling  me  that 
when  she  said  sixteen  pounds  she  meant  sixteen 
pounds.  I  began  to  see  a  brighter  side  to  Hubert 
St.  Leonard's  career  as  a  farmer. 

"Very  well,"  I  said;  "we  will  regard  the  cow 
as  settled." 

I  made  a  note :  "  Cow,  sixteen  pounds.  Have 
the  cowshed  got  ready,  and  buy  one  of  those  big 
cans  on  wheels." 

"You  don't  happen  to  want  milk?"  I  put  it 
to   Miss  Janie.      "  Susie   seems  to  be   good   for 


THEY  AND  I  127 

about  five  gallons  a  day.  I'm  afraid  if  we  drink 
it  all  ourselves  we'll  get  too  fat." 

"At  twopence  halfpenny  a  quart,  delivered  at 
the  house,  as  much  as  you  like,"  replied  Miss 
Janie. 

I  made  a  note  of  that  also.  "  Happen  to  know 
a  useful  boy?"  I  asked  Miss  Janie. 

"What  about  young  Hopkins,"  suggested  her 
father. 

"The  only  male  thing  on  this  farm — with  the 
exception  of  yourself,  of  course,  father  dear — that 
has  got  any  sense,"  said  Miss  Janie.  "  He  can't 
have  Hopkins." 

"  The  only  fault  I  have  to  find  with  Hopkins," 
said  St.  Leonard,  "  is  that  he  talks  too  much." 

"  Personally,"  I  said,  "  I  should  prefer  a  coun- 
try lad.  I  have  come  down  here  to  be  in  the 
country.  With  Hopkins  around,  I  don't  somehow 
feel  it  is  the  country.  I  might  imagine  it  a  garden 
city:  that  is  as  near  as  Hopkins  would  allow  me  to 
get.  I  should  like  myself  something  more  sug- 
gestive of  rural  simplicity." 

"  I  think  I  know  the  sort  of  thing  you  mean," 
smiled  Miss  Janie.  "  Are  you  fairly  good-tem- 
pered?" 


128  THEY  AND  I 

"  I  can  generally,"  I  answered,  "  confine  myself 
to  sarcasm.  It  pleases  me,  and  as  far  as  I  have 
been  able  to  notice,  does  neither  harm  nor  good 
to  any  one  else." 

"  I'll  send  you  up  a  boy,"  promised  Miss  Janie. 

I  thanked  her.  "  And  now  we  come  to  the  don- 
key." 

"  Nathaniel,"  explained  Miss  Janie,  in  answer 
to  her  father's  look  of  inquiry.  "We  don't  really 
want  it." 

"  Janie,"  said  Mr.  St.  Leonard  in  a  tone  of 
authority,  "  I  insist  upon  being  honest." 

"  I  was  going  to  be  honest,"  retorted  Miss  Janie, 
offended. 

"  My  daughter  Veronica  has  given  me  to  under- 
stand," I  said,  "  that  if  I  buy  her  this  donkey 
it  will  be,  for  her,  the  commencement  of  a  new 
and  better  life.  I  do  not  attach  undue  importance 
to  the  bargain,  but  one  never  knows.  The  in- 
fluences that  make  for  reformation  in  human  char- 
acter are  subtle  and  unexpected.  Anyhow,  it 
doesn't  seem  right  to  throw  a  chance  away.  Added 
to  which,  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  a  donkey 
might  be  useful  in  the  garden." 

"  He  has  lived  at  my  expense  for  upwards  of 


THEY  AND  I  129 

two  years,"  replied  St.  Leonard.  "  I  cannot  my- 
self see  any  moral  improvement  he  has  brought 
into  my  family.  What  effect  he  may  have  upon 
your  children,  I  cannot  say.     But  when  you  talk 

about  his  being  useful  in  a  garden " 

"  He  draws  a  cart,"  interrupted  Miss  Janie. 
"  So  long  as  some  one  walks  beside  him  feeding 
him  with  carrots.  We  tried  fixing  the  carrot  on 
a  pole  six  inches  beyond  his  reach.  That  works 
all  right  in  the  picture :  it  starts  this  donkey  kick- 
ing. 

"  You  know  yourself,"  he  continued  with  grow- 
ing indignation,  "  the  very  last  time  your  mother 
took  him  out  she  used  up  all  her  carrots  getting 
there,  with  the  result  that  he  and  the  cart  had  to 
be  hauled  home  behind  a  trolley." 

We  had  reached  the  yard.  Nathaniel  was 
standing  with  his  head  stretched  out  above  the 
closed  half  of  his  stable  door.  I  noticed  points  of 
resemblance  between  him  and  Veronica  herself: 
there  was  about  him  a  like  suggestion  of  resigna- 
tion, of  suffering  virtue  misunderstood;  his  eye 
had  the  same  wistful,  yearning  expression  with 
which  Veronica  will  stand  before  the  window  gaz- 
ing out  upon  the  purple  sunset,  while  people  are 


130  THEY  AND  I 

calling  to  her  from  distant  parts  of  the  house  to 
come  and  put  her  things  away.  Miss  Janie,  bend- 
ing over  him,  asked  him  to  kiss  her.  He  complied, 
but  with  a  gentle,  reproachful  look  that  seemed  to 
say,  "  Why  call  me  back  again  to  earth?" 

It  made  me  mad  with  him.  I  was  wrong  in 
thinking  Miss  Janie  not  a  pretty  girl.  Hers  is 
that  type  of  beauty  that  escapes  attention  by  its 
own  perfection.  It  is  the  eccentric,  the  discordant, 
that  arrests  the  roving  eye.  To  harmony  one  has 
to  attune  oneself. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Miss  Janie,  as  she  drew  away, 
wiping  her  cheek,  "  one  could  teach  that  donkey 
anything." 

Apparently  she  regarded  willingness  to  kiss  her 
as  indication  of  exceptional  amiability. 

"  Except  to  work,"  commented  her  father. 
"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said.  "  If  you 
take  that  donkey  off  my  hands  and  promise  not 
to  send  it  back  again,  why,  you  can  have  it." 

"  For  nothing,"  demanded  Janie  woefully. 

"  For  nothing,"  insisted  her  father.  "  And  if 
I  have  any  argument,  I'll  throw  in  the  cart." 

Miss  Janie  sighed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
It   was   arranged    that   Hopkins   should    deliver 


THEY  AND  I  131 

Nathaniel  into  my  keeping  some  time  the  next  day. 
Hopkins,  it  appeared,  was  the  only  person  on  the 
farm  who  could  make  the  donkey  go. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  said  St.  Leonard, 
"  but  he  has  a  way  with  him." 

11  And  now,"  I  said,  "  there  remains  but  Dick." 

"The  lad  I  saw  yesterday?"  suggested  St. 
Leonard.     "  Good-looking  young  fellow." 

"  He  is  a  nice  boy,"  I  said.  "  I  don't  really 
think  I  know  a  nicer  boy  than  Dick;  and  clever, 
when  you  come  to  understand  him.  There  is  only 
one  fault  I  have  to  find  with  Dick :  I  don't  seem 
able  to  get  him  to  work." 

Miss  Janie  was  smiling.     I  asked  her  why. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  answered,  "  how  close 
the  resemblance  appears  to  be  between  him  and 
Nathaniel." 

It  was  true.    I  had  not  thought  of  it. 

"  The  mistake,"  said  St.  Leonard,  "  is  with  our- 
selves. We  assume  every  boy  to  have  the  soul 
of  a  professor,  and  every  girl  a  genius  for  music. 
We  pack  off  our  sons  to  cram  themselves  with 
Greek  and  Latin,  and  put  our  daughters  down  to 
strum  at  the  piano.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  it  is 
sheer  waste  of  time.    They  sent  me  to  Cambridge, 


132  THEY  AND  I 

and  said  I  was  lazy.  I  was  not  lazy.  I  was  not 
intended  by  nature  for  a  Senior  Wrangler.  I  did 
not  see  the  good  of  being  a  Senior  Wrangler. 
Who  wants  a  world  of  Senior  Wranglers?  Then 
why  start  every  young  man  trying?  I  wanted  to 
be  a  farmer.  If  intelligent  lads  were  taught  farm- 
ing as  a  business,  farming  would  pay.  In  the 
name  of  common-sense " 

11 1  am  inclined  to  agree  with  you,"  I  inter- 
rupted him.  "  I  would  rather  see  Dick  a  good 
farmer  than  a  third-rate  barrister,  anyhow.  He 
thinks  he  could  take  an  interest  in  farming.  There 
are  ten  weeks  before  he  need  go  back  to  Cam- 
bridge, sufficient  time  for  the  experiment.  Will 
you  take  him  as  a  pupil  ?  " 

St.  Leonard  grasped  his  head  between  his  hands 
and  held  it  firmly.  "  If  I  consent,"  he  said,  "  I 
must  insist  on  being  honest." 

I  saw  the  woefulness  again  in  Janie's  eyes. 

"  I  think,"  I  said,  "  it  is  my  turn  to  be  honest. 
I  have  got  the  donkey  for  nothing;  I  insist  on 
paying  for  Dick.  They  are  waiting  for  you  in 
the  rick-yard.  I  will  settle  the  terms  with  Miss 
Janie." 

He  regarded  us  both  suspiciously. 


THEY  AND  I  133 

"I  will  promise  to  be  honest,"  laughed  Miss 
Janie. 

"If  it's  more  than  I'm  worth,"  he  said,  "I'll 

send  him  home  again.     My  theory  is " 

He  stumbled  over  a  pig  which,  according  to  the 
time-table,  ought  not  to  have  been  there.  They 
went  off  hurriedly  together,  the  pig  leading,  both 
screaming. 

Miss  Janie  said  she  would  show  me  the  short 
cut  across  the  fields;  we  could  talk  as  we  went. 
We  walked  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"  You  must  not  think,"  she  said,  "  I  like  being 
the  one  to  do  all  the  haggling.  I  feel  a  little  sore 
about  it  very  often.  But  somebody,  of  course, 
must  do  it;  and  as  for  father,  poor  dear " 

I  looked  at  her.  Hers  is  the  beauty  to  which 
a  touch  of  sadness  adds  a  charm. 

"How  old  are  you?"  I  asked  her. 

"Twenty,"  she  answered,  "next  birthday." 

"  I  judged  you  to  be  older,"  I  said. 

"  Most  people  do,"  she  answered. 

"  My  daughter  Robina,"  I  said,  "  is  just  the 
same  age — according  to  years ;  and  Dick  is  twenty- 
one.  I  hope  you  will  be  friends  with  them.  They 
have  got  sense,  both  of  them.     It  comes  out  every 


134  THEY  AND  I 

now  and  again  and  surprises  you.  Veronica,  I 
think,  is  nine.  I  am  not  sure  how  Veronica  is  go- 
ing to  turn  out.  Sometimes  things  happen  that 
make  us  think  she  has  a  beautiful  character,  and 
then  for  quite  long  periods  she  seems  to  lose  it 
altogether.  The  Little  Mother — I  don't  know 
why  we  always  call  her  Little  Mother — will  not 
join  us  until  things  are  more  ship-shape.  She  does 
not  like  to  be  thought  an  invalid,  and  if  we  have 
her  about  anywhere  near  work  that  has  to  be  done, 
and  are  not  always  watching  her,  she  gets  at  it  and 
tires  herself." 

"I  am  glad  we  are  going  to  be  neighbours," 
said  Miss  Janie.  "  There  are  ten  of  us  alto- 
gether. Father,  I  am  sure,  you  will  like;  clever 
men  always  like  father.  Mother's  day  is  Friday. 
As  a  rule  it  is  the  only  day  no  one  ever  calls." 
She  laughed.  The  cloud  had  vanished.  "  They 
come  on  other  days  and  find  us  all  in  our  old 
clothes.  On  Friday  afternoon  we  sit  in  state  and 
nobody  comes  near  us,  and  we  have  to  eat  the 
cakes  ourselves.  It  makes  her  so  cross.  You  will 
try  and  remember  Fridays,  won't  you?" 

I  made  a  note  of  it  then  and  there. 

II  I  am  the  eldest,"  she  continued,  "  as  I  think 


THEY  AND  I  135 

father  told  you.  Harry  and  Jack  came  next;  but 
Jack  is  in  Canada  and  Harry  died,  so  there  is 
somewhat  of  a  gap  between  me  and  the  rest. 
Bertie  is  twelve  and  Ted  eleven;  they  are  home 
just  now  for  the  holidays.  Sally  is  eight,  and  then 
there  come  the  twins.  People  don't  half  believe 
the  tales  that  are  told  about  twins,  but  I  am  sure 
there  is  no  need  to  exaggerate.  They  are  only  six, 
but  they  have  a  sense  of  humour  you  would  hardly 
credit.  One  is  a  boy,  and  the  other  a  girl.  They 
are  always  changing  clothes,  and  we  are  never  quite 
sure  which  is  which.  Wilfrid  gets  sent  to  bed  be- 
cause Winnie  has  not  practised  her  scales,  and 
Winnie  is  given  syrup  of  squills  because  Wilfrid 
has  been  eating  green  gooseberries.  Last  spring 
Winnie  had  the  measles.  When  the  doctor  came 
on  the  fifth  day  he  was  as  pleased  as  punch;  he 
said  it  was  the  quickest  cure  he  had  ever  known, 
and  that  really  there  was  no  reason  why  she  might 
not  get  up.  We  had  our  suspicions,  and  they  were 
right.  Winnie  was  hiding  in  the  cupboard, 
wrapped  up  in  a  blanket.  They  don't  seem  to 
mind  what  trouble  they  get  into,  provided  it  isn't 
their  own.  The  only  safe  plan,  unless  you  happen 
to  catch  them  red-handed,  is  to  divide  the  punish- 


136  THEY.  AND  I 

ment  between  them,  and  leave  them  to  settle  ac- 
counts between  themselves  afterwards.  Algy  is 
four;  till  last  year  he  was  always  called  the  baby. 
Now,  of  course,  there  is  no  excuse;  but  the  name 
still  clings  to  him  in  spite  of  his  indignant  protesta- 
tions. Father  called  upstairs  to  him  the  other  day : 
1  Baby,  bring  me  down  my  gaiters.'  He  walked 
straight  up  to  the  cradle  and  woke  up  the  baby. 
1  Get  up,'  I  heard  him  say — I  was  just  outside  the 
door — 'and  take  your  father  down  his  gaiters. 
Don't  you  hear  him  calling  you?'  He  is  a  droll 
little  fellow.  Father  took  him  to  Oxford  last  Sat- 
urday. He  is  small  for  his  age.  The  ticket-col- 
lector, quite  contented,  threw  hirri  a  glance,  and 
merely  as  a  matter  of  form  asked  if  he  was  under 
three.  '  No,'  he  shouted  before  father  could  re- 
ply; 'I  'sists  on  being  honest.  I'se  four.'  It  is 
father's  pet  phrase." 

"What  view  do  you  take  of  the  exchange," 
I  asked  her,  "  from  stockbroking  with  its  larger 
income  to  farming  with  its  smaller?  " 

"Perhaps  it  was  selfish,"  she  answered,  "but 
I  am  afraid  I  rather  encouraged  father.  It  seems 
to  me  mean,  making  your  living  out  of  work  that 
does  no  good  to  any  one.     I  hate  the  bargaining, 


THEY  AND  I  137 

but  the  farming  itself  I  love.  Of  course,  it  means 
having  only  one  evening  dress  a  year,  and  making 
that  myself.  But  even  when  I  had  a  lot  I  always 
preferred  wearing  the  one  that  I  thought  suited  me 
the  best.  As  for  the  children,  they  are  as  healthy  as 
young  savages,  and  everything  they  want  to  make 
them  happy  is  just  outside  the  door.  The  boys 
won't  go  to  college;  but  seeing  they  will  have  to 
earn  their  own  living,  that,  perhaps,  is  just  as  well. 
It  is  mother,  poor  dear,  that  worries  so."  She 
laughed  again.  "  Her  favourite  walk  is  to  the 
workhouse.  She  came  back  quite  excited  the  other 
day  because  she  had  heard  the  Guardians  intend 
to  try  the  experiment  of  building  separate  houses 
for  old  married  couples.  She  is  convinced  she  and 
father  are  going  to  end  their  days  there." 

"  You,  as  the  business  partner,"  I  asked  her, 
"  are  hopeful  that  the  farm  will  pay?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  "  it  will  pay  all  right 
— it  does  pay,  for  the  matter  of  that.  We  live 
on  it  and  live  comfortably.  But,  of  course,  I  can 
see  mother's  point  of  view,  with  seven  young  chil- 
dren to  bring  up.  And  it  is  not  only  that."  She 
stopped  herself  abruptly.  "  Oh,  well,"  she  con- 
tinued with  a  laugh,  "you  have  got  to  know  us. 


138  THEY  AND  I 

Father  is  trying.  He  loves  experiments,  and  a 
woman  hates  experiments.  Last  year  it  was  bare 
feet.  I  daresay  it  is  healthier.  But  children  who 
have  been  about  in  bare  feet  all  the  morning — well, 
it  isn't  pleasant  when  they  sit  down  to  lunch;  I 
don't  care  what  you  say.  You  can't  be  always 
washing.  He  is  so  unpractical.  He  was  quite 
angry  with  mother  and  myself  because  we  wouldn't. 
And  a  man  in  bare  feet  looks  so  ridicu- 
lous. This  summer  it  is  short  hair  and  no  hats; 
and  Sally  had  such  pretty  hair.  Next  year  it  will 
be  sabots  or  turbans — something  or  other  suggest- 
ing the  idea  that  we've  lately  escaped  from  a  fair. 
On  Mondays  and  Thursdays  we  talk  French.  We 
have  got  a  French  nurse;  and  those  are  the  only 
days  in  the  week  she  doesn't  understand  a  word 
that's  said  to  her.  We  can  none  of  us  understand 
father,  and  that  makes  him  furious.  He  won't  say 
it  in  English;  he  makes  a  note  of  it,  meaning  to 
tell  us  on  Thursdays  and  Fridays,  and  then,  of 
course,  he  forgets,  and  wonders  why  we  haven't 
done  it.  He's  the  dearest  fellow  alive.  When  I 
think  of  him  as  a  big  boy,  then  he  is  charming, 
and  if  he  really  were  only  a  big  boy  there  are  times 
when  I  would  shake  him  and  feel  better  for  it." 


THEY  AND  I  139 

She  laughed  again.  I  wanted  her  to  go  on  talk- 
ing, because  her  laugh  was  so  delightful.  But  we 
had  reached  the  road,  and  she  said  she  must  go 
back:  there  were  so  many  things  she  had  to  do. 

"We  have  not  settled  about  Dick,"  I  reminded 

her. 

"  Mother  took  rather  a  liking  to  him,"   she 

murmured. 

"If  Dick  could  make  a  living,"  I  said,  "by 
getting  people  to  like  him,  I  should  not  be  so 
anxious  about  his  future — lazy  young  devil !  " 

"  He  has  promised  to  work  hard  if  you  let  him 
take  up  farming,"  said  Miss  Janie. 

"  He  has  been  talking  to  you?  "  I  said. 

She  admitted  it. 

"  He  will  begin  well,"  I  said.  "  I  know  him. 
In  a  month  he  will  have  tired  of  it,  and  be  clam- 
ouring to  do  something  else." 

"  I  shall  be  very  disappointed  in  him  if  he  does," 
she  said. 

"  I  will  tell  him  that,"  I  said,  "  it  may  help. 
People  don't  like  other  people  to  be  disappointed 
in  them." 

"  I  would  rather  you  didn't,"  she  said.  "  You 
could  say  that  father  will  be  disappointed  in  him. 


140  THEY  AND  I 

Father  formed  rather  a  good  opinion  of  him,  I 
know." 

"  I  will  tell  him,"  I  suggested,  "  that  we  shall 
all  be  disappointed  in  him." 

She  agreed  to  that,  and  we  parted.  I  remem- 
bered, when  she  was  gone,  that  after  all  we  had 
not  settled  terms. 

Dick  overtook  me  a  little  way  from  home. 

"  I  have  settled  your  business,"  I  told  him. 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  Dick. 

"  Mind,"  I  continued,  "  it's  on  the  understand- 
ing that  you  throw  yourself  into  the  thing  and 
work  hard.  If  you  don't,  I  shall  be  disappointed 
in  you,  I  tell  you  so  frankly." 

"That's  all  right,  Governor,"  he  answered 
cheerfully.     "  Don't  you  worry." 

"  Mr.  St.  Leonard  will  also  be  disappointed  in 
you,  Dick,"  I  informed  him.  "He  has  formed  a 
very  high  opinion  of  you.  Don't  give  him  cause  to 
change  it." 

"  I'll  get  on  all  right  with  him,"  answered  Dick. 
"Jolly  old  duffer,  ain't  he?" 

"  Miss  Janie  will  also  be  disappointed  in  you," 
I  added. 

"Did  she  say  that?"  he  asked. 


THEY  AND  I  141 

"She  mentioned  it  casually,"  I  explained: 
"  though  now  I  come  to  think  of  it  she  asked  me 
not  to  say  so.  What  she  wanted  me  to  impress 
upon  you  was  that  her  father  would  be  disap- 
pointed in  you." 

Dick  walked  beside  me  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"  Sorry  I've  been  a  worry  to  vou,  dad,"  he  said 
at  last. 

11  Glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  I  replied, 

"  I'm  going  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  dad,"  he 
said.     "  I'm  going  to  work  hard." 

"About  time,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER  VI 

We  had  cold  bacon  for  lunch  that  day.  There 
was  not  much  of  it.  I  took  it  to  be  the  bacon  we 
had  not  eaten  for  breakfast.  But  on  a  clean  dish 
with  parsley  it  looked  rather  neat.  It  did  not  sug- 
gest, however,  a  lunch  for  four  people,  two  of 
whom  had  been  out  all  the  morning  in  the  open 
air.     There  was  some  excuse  for  Dick. 

"I  never  heard  before,"  said  Dick,  "of  cold 
fried  bacon  as  a  hors  d'ceuvre." 

"  It  is  not  a  hors  d'oeuvre."  explained  Robina. 
"It  is  all  there  is  for  lunch."  She  spoke  in  the 
quiet,  passionless  voice  of  one  who  has  done  with 
all  human  emotion.  She  added  that  she  should  not 
be  requiring  any  herself,  she  having  lunched  al- 
ready. 

Veronica,  conveying  by  her  tone  and  bearing 
the  impression  of  something  midway  between  a 
perfect  lady  and  a  Christian  martyr,  observed  that 
she  also  had  lunched. 

"Wish  I  had,"  growled  Dick. 

I  gave  him  a  warning  kick.  I  could  see  he 
142 


THEY  AND  I  143 

was  on  the  way  to  getting  himself  into  trouble. 
As  I  explained  to  him  afterwards,  a  woman  is 
most  dangerous  when  at  her  meekest.     A  man, 
when  he  feels  his  temper  rising,  takes  every  op- 
portunity of  letting  it  escape.     Trouble  at  such 
times  he  welcomes.    A  broken  boot-lace,  or  a  shirt 
without  a  button,  is  to  him  then  as  water  in  the 
desert.     An  only  collar-stud  that  will  disappear 
as  if  by  magic  from  between  his  thumb  and  finger 
and  vanish  apparently  into  thin  air  is  a  piece  of 
good  fortune  sent  on  these  occasions  only  to  those 
whom  the  gods  love.    By  the  time  he  has  waddled 
on  his  hands  and  knees  twice   round  the   room, 
broken  the  boot-jack  raking  with  it  underneath 
the    wardrobe,    been    bumped    and    slapped    and 
kicked  by  every  piece  of  furniture  that  the  room 
contains,  and  ended  up  by  stepping  on  that  stud 
and  treading  it  flat,  he  has  not  a  bitter  or  an 
angry  thought  left  in  him.     All  that  remains  of 
him  is  sweet  and  peaceful.     He  fastens  his  collar 
with  a  safety-pin5,  humming  an  old  song  the  while. 
Failing  the  gifts  of  Providence,  the  children — if 
in  health — can  generally  be  depended  upon  to  af- 
ford him  an  opening.     Sooner  or  later  one  or  an- 
other of  them  will  do  something  that  no  child, 


144  THEY  AND  I 

when  he  was  a  boy,  would  have  dared — or  dreamed 
of  daring — to  even  so  much  as  think  of  doing. 
The  child,  conveying  by  expression  that  the  world, 
it  is  glad  to  say,  is  slowly  but  steadily  growing  in 
sense,  and  pity  it  is  that  old-fashioned  folks  can't 
bustle  up  and  keep  abreast  of  it,  points  out  that 
firstly  it  has  not  done  this  thing,  that  for  various 
reasons — a  few  only  of  which  need  be  dwelt  upon 
— it  is  impossible  it  could  have  done  this  thing; 
that  secondly  it  has  been  expressly  requested  to  do 
this  thing,  that  wishful  always  to  give  satisfaction, 
it  has — at  sacrifice  of  all  its  own  ideas — gone  out 
of  its  way  to  do  this  thing;  that  thirdly  it  can't 
help  doing  this  thing,  strive  against  fate  as  it  will. 
He  says  he  does  not  want  to  hear  what  the  child 
has  got  to  say  on  the  subject — nor  on  any  other 
subject,  neither  then  nor  at  any  other  time.  He 
says  there's  going  to  be  a  new  departure  in  this 
house,  and  that  things  all  round  are  going  to  be 
very  different.  He  suddenly  remembers  every 
rule  and  regulation  he  has  made  during  the  past 
ten  years  for  the  guidance  of  everybody,  and  that 
everybody,  himself  included,  has  forgotten.  He 
tries  to  talk  about  them  all  at  once,  in  haste  lest 
he  should  forget  them  again.    By  the  time  he  has 


THEY  AND  I  145 

succeeded  in  getting  himself,  if  nobody  else,  to  un- 
derstand himself,  the  children  are  swarming  round 
his  knees  extracting  from  him  promises  that  in  his 
sober  moments  he  will  be  sorry  that  he  made. 

I  knew  a  woman — a  wise  and  good  woman  she 
was — who  when  she  noticed  that  her  husband's 
temper  was  causing  him  annoyance,  took  pains  to 
help  him  to  get  rid  of  it.  To  relieve  his  sufferings 
I  have  known  her  to  search  the  house  for  a  last 
month's  morning  paper  and,  ironing  it  smooth,  lay 
it  warm  and  neatly  folded  on  his  breakfast  plate. 

"  One  thing  in  this  world  to  be  thankful  for,  at 
all  events,  and  that  is  that  we  don't  live  in  Ditch- 
ley-in-the-Marsh,"  he  would  growl  ten  minutes 
later  from  the  other  side  of  it. 

"Sounds  a  bit  damp,"  the  good  woman  would 
reply. 

II  Damp !  "  he  would  grunt,  "  who  minds  a  bit 
of  damp  1  Good  for  you.  Makes  us  Englishmen 
what  we  are.  Being  murdered  in  one's  bed  about 
once  a  week  is  what  I  should  object  to." 

"  Do  they  do  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  down 
there?"  the  good  woman  would  inquire. 

"  Seems  to  be  the  chief  industry  of  the  place. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  remember  that 


146  THEY  AND  I 

old  maiden  lady  being  murdered  by  her  own  gar- 
dener and  buried  in  the  fowl-run?  You  women! 
you  take  no  interest  in  public  affairs." 

11 1  do  remember  something  about  it,  now  you 
mention  it,  dear,"  the  good  woman  would  confess. 
"  Always  seems  such  an  innocent  type  of  man,  a 
gardener." 

11  Seems  to  be  a  special  breed  of  them  at  Ditch- 
ley-in-the-Marsh,"  he  answers.  "  Here  again  last 
Monday,"  he  continues,  reading  with  growing  in- 
terest. "  Almost  the  same  case — even  to  the  prun- 
ing knife.  Yes,  hanged  if  he  doesn't! — buries  her 
in  the  fowl-run.    This  is  most  extraordinary." 

"  It  must  be  the  initiative  instinct  asserting  it* 
self,"  suggests  the  good  woman.  "As  you,  dear, 
have  so  often  pointed  out,  one  crime  makes  an- 
other." 

"I  have  always  said  so,"  he  agrees;  "it  has 
always  been  a  theory  of  mine." 

He  folds  the  paper  over.  "  Dull  dogs,  these 
political  chaps !  "  he  says.  "  Here's  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire,  speaking  last  night  at  Hackney,  begins 
by  telling  a  funny  story  he  says  he  has  just  heard 
about  a  parrot.  Why,  it's  the  same  story  some- 
body told  a  month  ago;  I  remember  reading  it. 


THEY  AND  I  147 

Yes — upon  my  soul — word  for  word,  I'd  swear  to 
it.  Shows  you  the  sort  of  men  we're  governed 
by." 

11  You  can't  expect  every  one,  dear,  to  possess 
your  repertoire,"  the  good  woman  remarks. 

11  Needn't  say  he's  just  heard  it  that  afternoon, 
anyhow,"  responds  the  good  man. 

He  turns  to  another  column.  "  What  the  devil ! 
Am  I  going  off  my  head?"  He  pounces  on  the 
eldest  boy.  "When  was  the  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge Boat-race?"  he  fiercely  demands. 

"The  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Boat-race!"  re- 
peats the  astonished  youth.  "  Why,  it's  over. 
You  took  us  all  to  see  it,  last  month.  The  Satur- 
day before " 

The  conversation  for  the  next  ten  minutes  he 
conducts  himself,  unaided.  At  the  end  he  is  tired, 
maybe  a  trifle  hoarse.  But  all  his  bad  temper  is 
gone.  His  sorrow  is  there  was  not  sufficient  of  it. 
He  could  have  done  with  more. 

Woman  knows  nothing  of  simple  mechanics.  A 
woman  thinks  you  can  get  rid  of  steam  by  boxing 
it  up  and  sitting  on  the  safety-valve. 

"  Feeling  as  I  do  this  morning,  that  I'd  like  to 
wring  everybody's  neck  for  them,"  the  average 


148  THEY  AND  I 

woman  argues  to  herself;  "my  proper  course — I 
see  it  clearly — is  to  creep  about  the  house,  asking 
of  every  one  that  has  the  time  to  spare  to  trample 
on  me." 

She  coaxes  you  to  tell  her  of  her  faults.  When 
you  have  finished  she  asks  for  more — reminds  you 
of  one  or  two  you  had  missed  out.  She  wonders 
why  it  is  that  she  is  always  wrong.  There  must 
be  a  reason  for  it;  if  only  she  could  discover  it. 
She  wonders  how  it  is  that  people  can  put  up  with 
her — thinks  it  so  good  of  them. 

At  last,  of  course,  the  explosion  happens.  The 
awkward  thing  is  that  neither  she  herself  nor  any 
one  else  knows  when  it  is  coming.  A  husband 
cornered  me  one  evening  in  the  club.  It  evidently 
did  him  good  to  talk.  He  told  me  that  finding 
his  wife  that  morning  in  one  of  her  rare  listening 
moods,  he  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  mention 
one  or  two  matters  in  connection  with  the  house 
he  would  like  to  have  altered ;  that  was,  if  she  had 
no  objection.  She  had — quite  pleasantly — re- 
minded him  the  house  was  his,  that  he  was  master 
there.  She  added  that  any  wish  of  his  of  course 
was  law  to  her. 

He  was  a  young  and  inexperienced  husband;  it 


THEY  AND  I  149 

seemed  to  him  a  hopeful  opening.  He  spoke  of 
quite  a  lot  of  things — things  about  which  he  felt 
that  he  was  right  and  she  was  wrong.  She  went 
and  fetched  a  quire  of  paper,  and  borrowed  his 
pencil  and  wrote  them  down. 

Later  on,  going  through  his  letters  in  the  study, 
he  found  an  unexpected  cheque;  and  ran  upstairs 
and  asked  her  if  she  would  not  like  to  come  out 
with  him  and  get  herself  a  new  hat. 

11 1  could  have  understood  it,"  he  moaned,  "  if 
she  had  dropped  on  me  while  I  was — well,  I  sup- 
pose, you  might  say  lecturing  her.  She  had  lis- 
tened to  it  like  a  lamb — hadn't  opened  her  mouth 
except  to  say  '  yes,  dear,'  or  '  no,  dear.'  Then, 
when  I  only  asked  her  if  she'd  like  a  new  hat,  she 
goes  suddenly  raving  mad.  I  never  saw  a  woman 
go  so  mad." 

I  doubt  if  there  be  anything  in  nature  quite  as 
unexpected  as  a  woman's  temper,  unless  it  be  tum- 
bling into  a  hole.  I  told  all  this  to  Dick.  I  have 
told  it  him  before.  One  of  these  days  he  will 
know  it. 

II  You  are  right  to  be  angry  with  me,"  Robina 
replied  meekly;  "  there  is  no  excuse  for  me.  The 
whole  thing  is  the  result  of  my  own  folly." 


150  THEY  AND  I 

Her  pathetic  humility  should  have  appealed  to 
him.  He  can  be  sympathetic,  when  he  isn't  hun- 
gry.   Just  then  he  happened  to  be  hungry. 

11 1  left  you  making  a  pie,"  he  said.  "  It  looked 
to  me  a  fair-sized  pie.  There  was  a  duck  on  the 
table,  with  a  cauliflower  and  potatoes;  Veronica 
was  up  to  her  elbows  in  peas.  It  made  me  hungry 
merely  passing  through  the  kitchen.  I  wouldn't 
have  anything  to  eat  in  the  town  for  fear  of  spoil- 
ing my  appetite.  Where  is  it  all?  You  don't 
mean  to  say  that  you  and  Veronica  have  eaten  the 
whole  blessed  lot!  " 

There  is  one  thing — she  admits  it  herself — that 
exhausts  Veronica's  patience :  it  is  unjust  suspicion. 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  I'd  eaten  anything  for  hours 
and  hours?  "  Veronica  demanded.  "You  can  feel 
my  waist-band  if  you  don't  believe  me." 

"  You  said  just  now  you  had  had  your  lunch," 
Dick  argued. 

"  I  know  I  did,"  Veronica  admitted.  "  One 
minute  you  are  told  that  it  is  wicked  to  tell  lies; 
the  next " 

'  Veronica !  "  Robina  interrupted  threateningly. 

"  It's  easy  for  you,"  retorted  Veronica.  "  You 
are  not  a  growing  child.     You  don't  feel  it." 


THEY  AND  I  151 

"  The  least  you  can  do,"  said  Robina,  "  is  to 
keep  silence." 

"  What's  the  good,"  said  Veronica — not  with- 
out reason.  "  You'll  tell  them  when  I've  gone  to 
bed,  and  can't  put  in  a  word  for  myself.  Every- 
thing is  always  my  fault.  I  wish  sometimes  that  I 
was  dead." 

"That  I  were  dead,"  I  calmly  corrected  her. 
"  The  verb  '  to  wish,'  implying  uncertainty, 
should  always  be  followed  by  the  conditional 
mood." 

"  You  ought,"  said  Robina,  "  to  be  thankful  to 
Providence  that  you're  not  dead," 

"  People  are  sorry  when  you're  dead,"  said  Ver- 
onica. 

"  I  suppose  there's  some  bread-and-cheese  in 
the  house,"  suggested  Dick. 

"  The  baker  for  some  reason  or  another,  has 
not  called  this  morning,"  Robina  answered  sweetly. 
"Neither,  unfortunately,  has  the  grocer.  Every- 
thing there  is  to  eat  in  the  house  you  see  upon 
the  table." 

"Accidents  will  happen,"  I  said.  "The  philos- 
opher— as  our  friend  St.  Leonard  would  tell  us — 
only  smiles." 


152  THEY  AND  I 

11 1  could  smile,"  said  Dick,  "  if  it  were  his 
lunch." 

"  Cultivate,"  I  said,  "  a  sense  of  humour.  From 
a  humourous  point  of  view  this  lunch  is  rather 
good." 

11  Did  you  have  anything  to  eat  at  the  St.  Leon- 
ard's? "  he  asked. 

"Just  a  glass  or  so  of  beer  and  a  sandwich  or 
two,"  I  admitted.  "  They  brought  it  out  to  us 
while  we  were  talking  in  the  yard.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  was  feeling  rather  peckish." 

Dick  made  no  answer,  but  continued  to  chew 
bacon-rind.  Nothing  I  could  say  seemed  to  cheer 
him.     I  thought  I  would  try  religion. 

"  A  dinner  of  herbs — the  sentiment  applies 
equally  to  lunch — and  contentment  therewith  is 
better,"  I  said,  "  than  a  stalled  ox." 

V  Don't  talk  about  oxen,"  he  interrupted  fret- 
fully. "I  feel  I  could  just  eat  one — a  plump 
one." 

There  is  a  man  I  know.  I  confess  he  irritates 
me.  His  argument  is  that  you  should  always  rise 
from  a  meal  feeling  hungry.  As  I  once  explained 
to  him,  you  cannot  rise  from  a  meal  feeling  hun- 
gry without  sitting  down  to  a  meal  feeling  hungry; 


THEY  AND  I  153 

which  means,  of  course,  that  you  are  always  hun- 
gry. He  agreed  with  me.  He  said  that  was  the 
idea — always  ready. 

"  Most  people,"  he  said,  "  rise  from  a  meal 
feeling  no  more  interest  in  their  food.  That  was 
a  mental  attitude  injurious  to  digestion.  Keep  it 
always  interested;  that  was  the  proper  way  to  treat 
it." 

"  By  *  it'  you  mean    .    .    .?"Isaid. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered;  "I'm  talking  about 
it." 

"  Now  I  myself,"  he  explained — "  I  rise  from 
breakfast  feeling  eager  for  my  lunch.  I  get  up 
from  my  lunch  looking  forward  to  my  dinner.  I 
go  to  bed  just  ready  for  my  breakfast." 

Cheerful  expectancy,  he  said,  was  a  wonderful 
aid  to  digestion.  "  I  call  myself,"  he  said,  "  a 
cheerful  feeder." 

"You  don't  seem  to  me,"  I  said,  "to  be  any- 
thing else.  You  talk  like  a  tadpole.  Haven't  you 
any  other  interest  in  life?  What  about  home, 
and  patriotism,  and  Shakespeare — all  those  sort  of 
things?  Why  not  give  it  a  square  meal,  and  si- 
lence it  for  an  hour  or  two;  leave  yourself  free  to 
think  of  something  else." 


154  THEY  AND  I 

"  How  can  you  think  of  anything,"  he  argued, 
"  when  your  stomach's  out  of  order?  " 

"  How  can  you  think  of  anything,"  I  argued, 
"  when  it  takes  you  all  your  time  to  keep  it  in  or- 
der? You  are  not  a  man;  you  are  a  nurse  to  your 
own  stomach."  We  were  growing  excited,  both  of 
us,  forgetting  our  natural  refinement.  "  You  don't 
get  even  your  one  afternoon  a  week.  You  are 
healthy  enough,  I  admit  it.  So  are  the  convicts  at 
Portland.  They  never  suffer  from  indigestion.  I 
knew  a  doctor  once  who  prescribed  for  a  patient 
two  years'  penal  servitude  as  the  only  thing  likely 
to  do  him  permanent  good.  Your  stomach  won't 
let  you  smoke.  It  won't  let  you  drink — not  when 
you  are  thirsty.  It  allows  you  a  glass  of  Apenta 
water  at  times  when  you  don't  want  it,  assuming 
there  could  ever  be  a  time  when  you  did  want  it. 
You  are  deprived  of  your  natural  victuals,  and 
made  to  live  upon  prepared  food,  as  though  you 
were  some  sort  of  a  prize  chicken.  You  are  sent 
to  bed  at  eleven,  and  dressed  in  hygienic  clothing 
that  makes  no  pretence  to  fit  you.  Talk  of  being 
hen-pecked!  Why,  the  mildest  husband  living 
would  run  away  or  drown  himself,  rather  than 


THEY  AND  I  155 

remain  tied  for  the  rest  of  his  existence  to  your 
stomach." 

"  It  is  easy  to  sneer,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  not  sneering,"  I  said;  "I  am  sympathis- 
ing with  you." 

He  said  he  did  not  want  any  sympathy.  He 
said  if  only  I  would  give  up  over-eating  and  drink- 
ing myself,  it  would  surprise  me  how  bright  and 
intelligent  I  should  become. 

I  thought  this  man  might  be  of  use  to  us  on 
the  present  occasion.  Accordingly  I  spoke  of  him 
and  his  theory.    Dick  seemed  impressed. 

"Nice  sort  of  man?  "  he  asked. 

"An  earnest  man,"  I  replied.  "He  practises 
what  he  preaches,  and  whether  because,  or  in  spite 
of  it,  the  fact  remains  that  a  chirpier  soul  I  am 
sure  does  not  exist." 

"  Married?  "  demanded  Dick. 

"  A  single  man,"  I  answered.  "  In  all  things 
an  idealist.  He  has  told  me  he  will  never  marry 
until  he  can  find  his  ideal  woman." 

"What  about  Robina  here!"  suggested  Dick. 
"  Seem  to  have  been  made  for  one  another." 

Robina  smiled.    It  was  a  wan,  pathetic  smile. 


156  THEY  AND  I 

"Even  he,'*  thought  Robina,  "would  want  his 
beans  cooked  to  time,  and  to  feel  that  a  reasonable 
supply  of  nuts  was  always  in  the  house.  We  in- 
competent women  never  ought  to  marry." 

We  had  finished  the  bacon.  Dick  said  he  would 
take  a  stroll  into  the  town.  Robina  suggested  he 
might  take  Veronica  with  him,  that  perhaps  a  bun 
and  a  glass  of  milk  would  do  the  child  no  harm. 

Veronica  for  a  wonder  seemed  to  know  where 
all  her  things  were.  Before  Dick  had  filled  his 
pipe  she  was  ready  dressed  and  waiting  for  him. 
Robina  said  she  would  give  them  a  list  of  things 
they  might  bring  back  with  them.  She  also  asked 
Dick  to  get  together  a  plumber,  a  carpenter,  a 
bricklayer,  a  glazier,  and  a  civil  engineer,  and  to 
see  to  it  that  they  started  off  at  once.  She  thought 
that  among  them  they  might  be  able  to  do  all  that 
was  temporarily  necessary,  but  the  great  thing  was 
that  the  work  should  be  commenced  without  delay. 

"Why,  what  on  earth's  the  matter,  old  girl?" 
asked  Dick.     "  Have  you  had  an  accident?  " 

Then  it  was  that  Robina  exploded.  I  had  been 
wondering  when  it  would  happen.  To  Dick's  as- 
tonishment it  happened  then. 

Yes,  she  answered,  there  had  been  an  accident. 


THEY  AND  I  157 

Did  he  suppose  that  seven  scrimp  scraps  of  bacon 
was  her  notion  of  a  lunch  between  four  hungry 
persons?  Did  he,  judging  from  himself,  imagine 
that  our  family  yielded  only  lunatics?  Was  it 
kind — was  it  courteous  to  his  parents,  to  the 
mother  he  pretended  to  love,  to  his  father  whose 
grey  hairs  he  was  by  his  general  behaviour  bring- 
ing down  in  sorrow  to  the  grave — to  assume  with- 
out further  inquiry  that  their  eldest  daughter  was 
an  imbecile?  (My  hair,  by  the  by,  is  not  grey. 
There  may  be  a  suggestion  of  greyness  here  and 
there,  the  natural  result  of  deep  thinking.  To  de- 
scribe it  in  the  lump  as  grey  is  to  show  lack  of 
observation.  And  at  forty-eight — or  a  trifle  over 
. — one  is  not  going  down  into  the  grave,  not 
straight  down.  Robina  when  excited  uses  exagger- 
ated language.  I  did  not,  however,  interrupt  her; 
she  meant  well.  Added  to  which,  interrupting 
Robina,  when — to  use  her  own  expression — she 
is  tired  of  being  a  worm,  is  like  trying  to  stop 
a  cyclone  with  an  umbrella.)  Had  his  attention 
been  less  concentrated  on  the  guzzling  of  cold 
bacon  (he  had  only  had  four  mouthfuls,  poor 
fellow) — had  he  noticed  the  sweet  patient  child 
starving  before  his  very  eyes    (this  referred  to 


158  THEY  AND  I 

Veronica) — his  poor  elder  sister,  worn  out  with 
work  and  worry,  pining  for  nourishment  herself, 
it  might  have  occurred  to  even  his  intelligence 
that  there  had  been  an  accident.  The  sefishness, 
the  egotism  of  men  it  was  that  staggered,  over- 
whelmed Robina,  when  she  came  to  think  of  it. 

Robina  paused.  Not  for  want  of  material,  I 
judged,  so  much  as  want  of  breath.  Veronica  per- 
formed a  useful  service  by  seizing  the  moment  to 
express  a  hope  that  it  was  not  early-closing  day. 
Robina  felt  a  conviction  that  it  was:  it  would  be 
just  like  Dick  to  stand  there  dawdling  in  a  corner 
till  it  was  too  late  to  do  anything. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  get  out  of  this  corner 
for  the  last  five  minutes,"  explained  Dick,  with 
that  angelic  smile  of  his  that  I  confess  is  irritating. 
11  If  you  have  done  talking,  and  will  give  me  an 
opening,  I  will  go." 

Robina  told  him  that  she  had  done  talking.  She 
gave  him  her  reasons  for  having  done  talking.  If 
talking  to  him  would  be  of  any  use  she  would  often 
have  felt  it  her  duty  to  talk  to  him,  not  only  with 
regard  to  his  stupidity  and  selfishness  and  general 
aggravatingness,  but  with  reference  to  his  char- 
acter as  a  whole.     Her  excuse  for  not  talking  to 


THEY  AND  I  159 

him  was  the  crushing  conviction  of  the  hopeless- 
ness of  ever  effecting  any  improvement  in  him. 
Were  it  otherwise 

"  Seriously  speaking,"  said  Dick,  now  escaped 
from  his  corner,  "something,  I  take  it,  has  gone 
wrong  with  the  stove,  and  you  want  a  sort  of  gen- 
eral smith." 

He  opened  the  kitchen  door  and  looked  in. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  said.  "What  was  it— an 
earthquake?  " 

I  looked  in  over  his  shoulder. 

"But  it  could  not  have  been  an  earthquake," 
I  said.    "  We  should  have  felt  it." 

"  It  is  not  an  earthquake,"  explained  Robina. 
"  It  is  your  youngest  daughter's  notion  of  making 
herself  useful." 

Robina  spoke  severely.  I  felt  for  the  moment 
as  if  I  had  done  it  all  myself.  I  had  an  uncle 
who  used  to  talk  like  that.  "  Your  aunt,"  he 
would  say,  regarding  me  with  a  reproachful  eye, 
"  your  aunt  can  be,  when  she  likes,  the  most  try- 
ing woman  to  live  with  I  have  ever  known."  It 
would  depress  me  for  days.  I  would  wonder 
whether  I  ought  to  speak  to  her  about  it,  or 
whether  I  should  be  doing  only  harm. 


160  THEY  AND  I 

"But  how  did  she  do  it?"  I  demanded.  "It 
is  impossible  that  a  mere  child — where  is  the 
child?" 

The  parlour  contained  but  Robina.  I  hurried 
to  the  door;  Dick  was  already  half  across  the  field. 
Veronica  I  could  not  see. 

11  We  are  making  haste,"  Dick  shouted  back, 
"  in  case  it  is  early-closing  day." 

"  I  want  Veronica  1 "  I  shouted. 

"What?"  shouted  Dick. 

"Veronica!  "  I  shouted  with  my  hands  to  my 
mouth. 

"  Yes !  "  shouted  Dick.    "  She's  on  ahead." 

It  was  useless  screaming  any  more.  He  was 
now  climbing  the  stile. 

"  They  always  take  each  other's  part,  those 
two,"  sighed  Robina. 

"Yes,  and  you  are  just  as  bad,"  I  told  her; 
"if  he  doesn't,  you  do.  And  then  if  it's  you, 
they  take  your  part.  And  you  take  his  part.  And 
he  takes  both  your  parts.  And  between  you  all 
I  am  just  getting  tired  of  bringing  any  of  you  up." 
(Which  is  the  truth.)  "How  did  this  thing  hap- 
pen?" 

"  I  had  got  everything  finished,"  answered  Ro- 


THEY  AND  I  161 

bina.  "The  duck  was  in  the  oven  with  the  pie; 
the  peas  and  potatoes  were  boiling  nicely.  I  was 
feeling  hot,  and  I  thought  I  could  trust  Veronica 
to  watch  the  things  for  a  while.  She  promised  not 
to  play  King  Alfred." 

"What's  that?"  I  asked. 

"You  know,"  said  Robina— "  King  Alfred  and 
the  cakes.  I  left  her  one  afternoon  last  year  when 
we  were  on  the  houseboat  to  watch  some  buns. 
When  I  came  back  she  was  sitting  in  front  of  the 
fire,  wrapped  up  in  the  tablecloth,  with  Dick's 
banjo  on  her  knees  and  a  cardboad  crown  upon  her 
head.  The  buns  were  all  burnt  to  a  cinder.  As  I 
told  her,  if  I  had  known  what  she  wanted  to  be 
up  to  I  could  have  given  her  some  extra  bits  of 
dough  to  make  believe  with.  But  oh,  no!  if  you 
please,  that  would  not  have  suited  her  at  all.  It 
was  their  being  real  buns,  and  my  being  real  mad, 
that  was  the  best  part  of  the  game.  She  is  an  un- 
canny child." 

"What  was  the  game  this  time?  "  I  asked  with 
interest. 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  intended  for  a  game — 
not  at  first,"  answered  Robina.  "  I  went  into  the 
wood  to  pick  some  flowers  for  the  table.     I  was 


1 62  THEY  AND  I 

on  my  way  back,  still  at  some  distance  from  the 
house,  when  I  heard  quite  a  loud  report.  I  took  it 
for  a  gun,  and  wondered  what  any  one  would  be 
shooting  in  July.  It  must  be  rabbits,  I  thought. 
Rabbits  never  seem  to  have  any  time  at  all  to  them- 
selves, poor  things.  And  in  consequence  I  did  not 
hurry  myself.  It  must  have  been  about  twenty 
minutes  later  when  I  came  in  sight  of  the  house. 
Veronica  was  in  the  garden  deep  in  confabulation 
with  an  awful-looking  boy,  dressed  in  nothing  but 
rags.  His  face  and  hands  were  almost  black.  You 
never  saw  such  an  object.  They  both  seemed  very 
excited.  Veronica  came  to  meet  me;  and  with  a 
face  as  serious  as  mine  is  now,  stood  there  and 
told  me  the  most  bare-faced  pack  of  lies  you  ever 
heard.  She  said  that  a  few  minutes  after  I  had 
gone,  robbers  had  come  out  of  the  wood — she 
talked  about  them  as  though  there  had  been  hun- 
dreds— and  had  with  the  most  awful  threats  de- 
manded to  be  admitted  into  the  house.  Why  they 
had  not  lifted  the  latch  and  walked  in,  she  did  not 
explain.  It  appeared  this  cottage  was  their  secret 
rendezvous,  where  all  their  treasure  lies  hidden. 
Veronica  would  not  let  them  in,  but  shouted  for 
help :  and  immediately  this  awful-looking  boy,  to 


THEY  AND  I  163 

whom  she  introduced  me  as  '  Sir  Robert '  some- 
thing or  another,  had  appeared  upon  the  scene; 
and  then  and  there  had  followed — well,  I  have  not 
the  patience  to  tell  you  the  whole  of  the  rigmarole 
they  had  concocted.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that 
the  robbers,  defeated  in  their  attempt  to  get  into 
the  house,  had  fired  a  secret  mine,  which  had  ex- 
ploded in  the  kitchen.  If  I  did  not  believe  them 
I  could  go  into  the  kitchen  and  see  for  myself. 
Say  what  I  would,  that  is  the  story  they  both  stuck 
to.  It  was  not  till  I  had  talked  to  Veronica  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  had  told  her  that  you 
would  most  certainly  communicate  with  the  police, 
and  that  she  would  have  to  convince  a  judge  and 
jury  of  the  truth  of  her  story,  that  I  got  any  sense 
at  all  out  of  her." 

"What  was  the  sense  you  did  get  out  of  her?" 
I  asked. 

II  Well,  I  am  not  sure  even  now  that  it  is  the 
truth,"  said  Robina — "  the  child  does  not  seem  to 
possess  a  proper  conscience.  What  she  will  grow 
up  like,  if  something  does  not  happen  to  change 
her,  it  is  awful  to  think." 

II I  don't  want  to  appear  a  hustler,"  I  said, 
"  and  maybe  I  am  mistaken  in  the  actual  time,  but 


1 64  THEY  AND  I 

it  feels  to  me  like  hours  since  I  asked  you  how 
the  catastrophe  really  occurred." 

11 1  am  telling  you,"  explained  Robina,  hurt. 
11  She  was  in  the  kitchen  yesterday  when  I  men- 
tioned to  Harry's  mother,  who  had  looked  in  to 
help  me  wash  up,  that  the  kitchen  chimney  smoked : 
and  then  she  said " 

"Who  said?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  she  did,"  answered  Robina,  "Harry's 
mother.  She  said  that  very  often  a  pennyworth 
of  gunpowder " 

"  Now  at  last  we  have  begun,"  I  said.  "  From 
this  point  I  may  be  able  to  help  you,  and  we  will 
get  on.  At  the  word  '  gunpowder '  Veronica 
pricked  up  her  ears.  The  thing  by  its  very  nature 
would  appeal  to  Veronica's  sympathies.  She  went 
to  bed  dreaming  of  gunpowder.  Left  in  solitude 
before  the  kitchen  fire,  other  maidens  might  have 
seen  pictured  in  the  glowing  coals,  princes,  car- 
riages, and  balls.  Veronica  saw  visions  of  gun- 
powder. Who  knows? — perhaps  even  she  one  day 
will  have  gunpowder  of  her  own!  She  looks  up 
from  her  reverie:  a  fairy  godmamma  in  the  dis- 
guise of  a  small  boy — it  was  a  small  boy,  was  it 
not?" 


THEY  AND  I  165 

"  Rather  a  nice  little  boy,  he  gave  me  the  idea 
of  having  been,  originally,"  answered  Robina; 
"the  child,  I  should  say,  of  well-to-do  parents. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  little  Lord  Fauntleroy  suit — 
or  rather,  he  had  been." 

"Did  Veronica  know  who  he  was — anything 
about  him?  "  I  asked. 

"  Nothing  that  I  could  get  out  of  her,"  replied 
Robina.  "You  know  her  way — how  she  chums 
on  with  anybody  and  everybody.  As  I  told  her, 
if  she  had  been  attending  to  her  duties  instead 
of  staring  out  of  the  window,  she  would  not  have 
seen  him.  He  happened  to  be  crossing  the  field 
just  at  the  time." 

"  A  boy  born  to  ill-luck,  evidently,"  I  observed. 
"  To  Veronica  of  course  he  seemed  like  the  answer 
to  a  prayer.  A  boy  would  surely  know  where  gun- 
powder could  be  culled." 

"  They  must  have  got  a  pound  of  it  from 
somewhere,"  said  Robina,  "judging  from  the 
result." 

"  Any  notion  where  they  got  it  from?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  explained  Robina.     "  All  Veronica  can 

say  is  that  he  told  her  he  knew  where  he  could 

get  some,  and  was  gone  about  ten  minutes.     Of 


1 66  THEY  AND  I 

course  they  must  have  stolen  it — even  that  did 
not  seem  to  trouble  her." 

"It  came  to  her  as  a  gift  from  the  gods,  Ro- 
bina,"  I  explained.  "I  remember  how  I  myself 
used  to  feel  about  these  things,  at  ten.  To  have 
inquired  further  would  have  seemed  to  her  im- 
pious.   How  was  it  they  were  not  both  killed?  " 

"Providence,"  was  Robina's  suggestion:  it 
seemed  to  be  the  only  one  possible.  "  They  lifted 
off  one  of  the  saucepans  and  just  dropped  the 
thing  in — fortunately  wrapped  up  in  a  brown  pa- 
per parcel,  which  gave  them  both  time  to  get  out 
of  the  house.  At  least  Veronica  got  clear  off. 
For  a  change  it  was  not  she  who  fell  over  the  mat, 
it  was  the  boy." 

I  looked  again  into  the  kitchen;  then  I  re- 
turned and  put  my  hands  on  Robina's  shoulders. 
"  It  is  a  most  amusing  incident — as  it  has  turned 
out,"  I  said. 

"It  might  have  turned  out  rather  seriously," 
thought  Robina. 

"  It  might,"  I  agreed:  "  she  might  be  lying  up- 
stairs." 

II  She  is  a  wicked,  heartless  child,"  said  Robina; 
"  she  ought  to  be  punished." 


THEY  AND  I  167 

I  lent  Robina  my  handkerchief;  she  never  has 
one  of  her  own. 

"  She  is  going  to  be  punished,"  I  said;  "  I  will 
think  of  something." 

"And  so  ought  I,"  said  Robina;  "it  was  my 
fault,  leaving  her,  knowing  what's  she's  like.  I 
might  have  murdered  her.  She  doesn't  care.  She's 
stuffing  herself  with  cakes  at  this  very  moment." 

"  They  will  probably  give  her  indigestion,"  I 
said.    "  I  hope  they  do." 

"Why  didn't  you  have  better  children?" 
sobbed  Robina;  "we  are  none  of  us  any  good  to 


you." 


"  .You  are  not  the  children  I  wanted,  I  confess," 
I  answered. 

"That's  a  nice  kind  thing  to  say!"  retorted 
Robina  indignantly. 

"  I  wanted  such  charming  children,"  I  ex- 
plained— "  my  idea  of  charming  children:  the  chil- 
dren I  had  imagined  for  myself.  Even  as  babies 
you  disappointed  me." 

Robina  looked  astonished. 

"You,  Robina,  were  the  most  disappointing," 
I  complained.  "  Dick  was  a  boy.  One  does  not 
calculate  upon  boy  angels;  and  by  the  time  Ver- 


1 68  THEY  AND  I 

onica  arrived  I  had  got  more  used  to  things.    But 

I  was  so  excited  when  you  came.  The  Little 
Mother  and  I  would  steal  at  night  into  the  nurs- 
ery. {  Isn't  it  wonderful,'  the  Little  Mother 
would  whisper,  '  to  think  it  all  lies  hidden  there : 
the  little  tiresome  child,  the  sweetheart  they  will 
one  day  take  away  from  us,  the  wife,  the  mother?  ' 

I I  am  glad  it  is  a  girl,'  I  would  whisper;  '  I  shall 
be  able  to  watch  her  grow  into  womanhood.  Most 
of  the  girls  one  comes  across  in  books  strike  one 
as  not  perhaps  quite  true  to  life.  It  will  give  me 
such  an  advantage  having  a  girl  of  my  own.  I 
shall  keep  a  note-book,  with  a  lock  and  key,  de- 
voted to  her.' " 

"Did  you?"  asked  Robina. 

"I  put  it  away,"  I  answered;  "there  were  but 
a  few  pages  written  on.  It  came  to  me  quite  early 
in  life  that  you  were  not  going  to  be  the  model 
heroine.  I  was  looking  for  the  picture  baby,  the 
clean,  thoughtful  baby,  with  its  magical,  mystical 
smile.  I  wrote  poetry  about  you,  Robina,  but  you 
would  slobber  and  howl.  Your  little  nose  was  al- 
ways having  to  be  wiped,  and  somehow  the  poetry 
did  not  seem  to  fit  you.  You  were  at  your  best 
when  you  were  asleep,  but  you  would  not  even 


THEY  AND  I  169 

sleep  when  It  was  expected  of  you.  I  think,  Ro- 
bina,  that  the  fellows  who  draw  the  pictures  for 
the  comic  journals  of  the  man  in  his  night-shirt 
with  the  squalling  baby  in  his  arms  must  all  be 
single  men.  The  married  man  sees  only  sadness 
in  the  design.  It  is  not  the  mere  discomfort.  If 
the  little  creature  were  ill  or  in  pain  we  should  not 
think  of  that.  It  is  the  reflection  that  we,  who 
meant  so  well,  have  brought  into  the  world  just 
an  ordinary  fretful  human  creature  with  a  nasty 
temper  of  its  own:  that  is  the  tragedy,  Robina. 
And  then  you  grew  into  a  little  girl.  I  wanted  the 
soulful  little  girl  with  the  fathomless  eyes,  who 
would  steal  to  me  at  twilight  and  question  me  con- 
cerning life's  conundrums." 

"  But  I  used  to  ask  you  questions,"  grumbled 
Robina,  "  and  you  would  tell  me  not  to  be  silly." 

"Don't  you  understand,  Robina?  "  I  answered. 
"  I  am  not  blaming  you,  I  am  blaming  myself. 
We  are  like  children  who  plant  seeds  in  a  gar- 
den, and  then  are  angry  with  the  flowers  because 
they  are  not  what  we  expected.  You  were  a  dear 
little  girl;  I  see  that  now,  looking  back.  But  not 
the  little  girl  I  had  in  my  mind.  So  I  missed  you, 
thinking  of  the  little  girl  you  were  not.     We  do 


170  THEY  AND  I 

that  all  our  lives,  Robina.  We  are  always  looking 
for  the  flowers  that  do  not  grow,  passing  by, 
trampling  underfoot,  the  blossoms  round  about  us. 
It  was  the  same  with  Dick.  I  wanted  a  naughty 
boy.  Well,  Dick  was  naughty,  no  one  can  say 
that  he  was  not.  But  it  was  not  my  naughtiness. 
I  was  prepared  for  his  robbing  orchards.  I  rather 
hoped  he  would  rob  orchards.  All  the  high- 
spirited  boys  in  books  rob  orchards,  and  become 
great  men.  But  there  were  not  any  orchards  handy. 
We  happened  to  be  living  in  Chelsea  at  the  time 
he  ought  to  have  been  robbing  orchards:  that,  of 
course,  was  my  fault.  I  did  not  think  of  that. 
He  stole  a  bicycle  that  a  lady  had  left  outside  the 
tea-room  in  Battersea  Park,  he  and  another  boy, 
the  son  of  a  common  barber,  who  shaved  people 
for  three-halfpence.  I  am  a  Republican  in  theory, 
but  it  grieved  me  that  a  son  of  mine  could  be 
drawn  to  such  companionship.  They  contrived  to 
keep  it  for  a  week — till  the  police  found  it  one 
night,  artfully  hidden  behind  bushes.  Logically, 
I  do  not  see  why  stealing  apples  should  be  noble 
and  stealing  bicycles  should  be  mean,  but  it  struck 
me  that  way  at  the  time.  It  was  not  the  particu- 
lar steal  I  had  been  hoping  for. 


THEY  AND  I  171 

"I  wanted  him  wild;  the  hero  of  the  book  was 
ever  in  his  college  days  a  wild  young  man.  Well, 
he  was  wild.  It  cost  me  three  hundred  pounds 
to  keep  that  breach  of  promise  case  out  of  Court; 
I  had  never  imagined  a  breach  of  promise  case. 
Then  he  got  drunk,  and  bonneted  a  bishop  in 
mistake  for  a  '  bull-dog.'  I  didn't  mind  the 
bishop.  That  by  itself  would  have  been  whole- 
some fun.  But  to  think  that  a  son  of  mine  should 
have  been  drunk! " 

"  He  has  never  been  drunk  since,"  pleaded  Ro- 
bina.  "He  had  only  three  glasses  of  champagne 
and  a  liqueur :  it  was  the  liqueur — he  was  not  used 
to  it.  He  got  into  the  wrong  set.  You  cannot  in 
college  belong  to  the  wild  set  without  getting 
drunk  occasionally." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  I  admitted.  "  In  the  book  the 
wild  young  man  drinks  without  ever  getting  drunk. 
Maybe  there  is  a  difference  between  life  and  the 
book.  In  the  book  you  enjoy  your  fun,  but  con- 
trive somehow  to  escape  the  licking:  in  life  the 
licking  is  the  only  thing  sure.  It  was  the  wild 
young  man  of  fiction  I  was  looking  for,  who,  a 
fortnight  before  the  exam.,  ties  a  wet  towel  round 
his  head,  drinks  strong  tea,  and  passes  easily  with 


172  THEY  AND  I 

honours.  He  tried  the  wet  towel,  he  tells  me.  It 
never  would  keep  in  its  place.  Added  to  which  it 
gave  him  neuralgia ;  while  the  strong  tea  gave  him 
indigestion.  I  used  to  picture  myself  the  proud, 
indulgent  father  lecturing  him  for  his  wildness — 
turning  away  at  some  point  in  the  middle  of  my 
tirade  to  hide  a  smile.  There  was  never  any  smile 
to  hide.  I  feel  that  he  has  behaved  disgracefully, 
wasting  his  time  and  my  money." 

"  He  is  going  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,"  said 
Robina :  "  I  am  sure  he  will  make  an  excellent 
farmer." 

"I  did  not  want  a  farmer,"  I  explained;  "I 
wanted  a  Prime  Minister.  Children,  Robina,  are 
very  disappointing.  Veronica  is  all  wrong.  I 
like  a  mischievous  child.  I  like  reading  stories  of 
mischievous  children :  they  amuse  me.  But  not  the 
child  who  puts  a  pound  of  gunpowder  into  a  red- 
hot  fire,  and  escapes  with  her  life  by  a  miracle." 

"And  yet,  I  daresay,"  suggested  Robina,  "  that 
if  one  put  it  into  a  book — I  mean  that  if  you  put 
it  into  a  book,  it  would  read  amusingly." 

11  Likely  enough,"  I  agreed.  "  Other  people's 
troubles  can  always  be  amusing.  As  it  is,  I  shall 
be  in  a  state  of  anxiety  for  the  next  six  months, 
wondering,  every  moment  that  she  is  out  of  my 


THEY  AND  I  173 

sight,  what  new  devilment  she  is  up  to.  The  Lit- 
tle Mother  will  be  worried  out  of  her  life,  unless 
we  can  keep  it  from  her." 

11  Children  will  be  children,"  murmured  Robina, 
meaning  to  be  comforting. 

"That  is  what  I  am  complaining  of,  Robina. 
We  are  always  hoping  that  ours  won't  be.  She 
is  full  of  faults,  Veronica,  and  they  are  not  always 
nice  faults.  She  is  lazy — lazy  is  not  the  word 
for  it." 

"  She  is  lazy,"  Robina  was  compelled  to  admit. 

"  There  are  other  faults  she  might  have  had  and 
welcome,"  I  pointed  out;  "faults  I  could  have 
taken  an  interest  in  and  liked  her  all  the  better  for. 
You  children  are  so  obstinate.  You  will  choose 
your  own  faults.  Veronica  is  not  truthful  always. 
I  wanted  a  family  of  little  George  Washingtons, 
who  could  not  tell  a  lie.  Veronica  can.  To  get 
herself  out  of  trouble — and  provided  there  is  any 
hope  of  anybody  believing  her — she  does." 

"  We  all  of  us  used  to  when  we  were  young," 
Robina  maintained;  "  Dick  used  to,  I  used  to.  It 
is  a  common  fault  with  children." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  I  answered.  "  I  did  not  want  a 
child  with  common  faults.  I  wanted  something 
all  my  own.     I  wanted  you,  Robina,  to  be  my 


174  THEY  AND  I 

ideal  daughter.  I  had  a  girl  in  my  mind  that  I 
am  sure  would  have  been  charming.  You  are  not 
a  bit  like  her.  I  don't  say  she  was  perfect,  she 
had  her  failings,  but  they  were  such  delightful 
failings — much  better  than  yours,  Robina.  She 
had  a  temper — a  woman  without  a  temper  is  in- 
sipid; but  it  was  that  kind  of  temper  that  made 
you  love  her  all  the  more.  Yours  doesn't,  Robina. 
I  wish  you  had  not  been  in  such  a  hurry,  and  had 
left  me  to  arrange  your  temper  for  you.  We  should 
all  of  us  have  preferred  mine.  It  had  all  the  at- 
tractions of  a  temper  without  the  drawbacks  of  the 
ordinary  temper." 

"Couldn't  use  it  up,  I  suppose,  for  yourself, 
Pa?"  suggested  Robina. 

"  It  was  a  lady's  temper,"  I  explained.  "  Be- 
sides," as  I  asked  her,  "what  is  wrong  with  the 
one  I  have?  " 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Robina.  Yet  her  tone 
conveyed  doubt.  "  It  seems  to  me  sometimes  that 
an  older  temper  would  suit  you  better,  that  was 
all." 

"  You  have  hinted  as  much  before,  Robina,"  I 
remarked,  "  not  only  with  reference  to  my  temper, 
but  with  reference  to  things  generally.  One  would 


THEY  AND  I  175 

think  that  you  were  dissatisfied  with  me  because  I 
am  too  young." 

"Not  in  years  perhaps,"  replied  Robina,  "but 
— well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  One  wants  one's 
father  to  be  always  great  and  dignified." 

"We  cannot  change  our  ego,"  I  explained  to 
her.  "  Some  daughters  would  appreciate  a  father 
youthful  enough  in  temperament  to  sympathise 
with  and  to  indulge  them.  The  solemn  old  fogey 
you  have  in  your  mind  would  have  brought  you  up 
very  differently.  Let  me  tell  you  that,  my  girl. 
You  would  not  have  liked  him,  if  you  had  had 
him." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  Robina  agreed.  "  You  are  aw- 
fully good  in  some  ways." 

"What  we  have  got  to  do  in  this  world,  Ro- 
bina," I  said,  "  is  to  take  people  as  they  are,  and 
make  the  best  of  them.  We  cannot  expect  every- 
body to  be  just  as  we  would  have  them,  and  maybe 
we  should  not  like  them  any  better  if  they  were. 
Don't  bother  yourself  about  how  much  nicer  they 
might  be ;  think  how  nice  they  are." 

Robina  said  she  would  try.  I  have  hopes  of 
making  Robina  a  sensible  woman. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DiciC  and  Veronica  returned  laden  with  parcels. 
They  explained  that  "  Daddy  Slee,"  as  it  appeared 
he  was  generally  called,  a  local  builder  of  renown, 
was  following  in  his  pony-cart,  and  was  kindly 
bringing  the  bulkier  things  with  him. 

11 1  tried  to  hustle  him,"  said  Dick,  "  but  com- 
ing up  after  he  had  washed  himself  and  had  his 
tea  seemed  to  be  his  idea  of  hustling.  He  has 
got  the  reputation  of  being  an  honest  old  Johnny, 
slow  but  sure ;  the  others,  they  tell  me,  are  slower. 
I  thought  you  might  care,  later  on,  to  talk  to  him 
about  the  house." 

Veronica  took  off  her  things  and  put  them  away, 
each  one  in  its  proper  place.  She  said,  if  no  one 
wanted  her,  she  would  read  a  chapter  of  "  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  and  retired  upstairs.  Ro- 
bina  and  I  had  an  egg  with  our  tea;  Mr.  Slee  ar- 
rived as  we  had  finished,  and  I  took  him  straight 
into  the  kitchen.  He  was  a  large  man,  with  a 
dreamy  expression  and  a  habit  of  sighing.  He 
sighed  when  he  saw  our  kitchen. 

176 


THEY  AND  I  177 

"  There's  four  days'  work  for  three  men  here," 
he  said,  "and  you'll  want  a  new  stove.  Lord  I 
what  trouble  children  can  be  1 " 

Robina  agreed  with  him. 

"  Meanwhile,"  she  demanded,  "  how  am  I  to 
cook?" 

"Myself,  missie,"  sighed  Mr.  Slee,  "I  don't 
see  how  you  are  going  to  cook." 

"  We'll  all  have  to  tramp  home  again,"  thought 
Dick. 

"And  tell  Little  Mother  the  reason,  and 
frighten  her  out  of  her  life ! "  retorted  Robina  in- 
dignantly. 

Robina  had  other  ideas.  Mr.  Slee  departed, 
promising  that  work  should  be  commenced  at 
seven  o'clock  on  Monday  morning.  Robina,  the 
door  closed,  began  to  talk. 

"Let  Pa  have  a  sandwich,"  said  Robina,  "and 
catch  the  six-fifteen." 

"  We  might  all  have  a  sandwich,"  suggested 
Dick;  "  I  could  do  with  one  myself." 

"Pa  can  explain,"  said  Robina,  "that  he  has 
been  called  back  to  town  on  business.  That  will 
account  for  everything,  and  Little  Mother  will 
not  be  alarmed." 


178  THEY  AND  I 

11  She  won't  believe  that  business  has  brought 
him  back  at  nine  o'clock  on  a  Saturday  night," 
argued  Dick;  "  you  think  that  Little  Mother  hasn't 
any  sense.  She'll  see  there's  something  up,  and 
ask  a  hundred  questions.  You  know  what  she  is." 

"  Pa,"  said  Robina,  "  will  have  time  while  in 
the  train  to  think  out  something  plausible:  that's 
where  Pa  is  clever.  With  Pa  off  my  hands  I 
shan't  mind.  We  three  can  live  on  cold  ham  and 
things  like  that.  By  Thursday  we  will  be  all 
right,  and  then  he  can  come  down  again." 

I  pointed  out  to  Robina,  kindly  but  firmly,  the 
utter  absurdity  of  her  idea.  How  could  I  leave 
them,  three  helpless  children,  with  no  one  to  look 
after  them?  What  would  the  Little  Mother  say? 
What  might  not  Veronica  be  up  to  in  my  absence? 
There  were  other  things  to  be  considered.  The 
donkey  might  arrive  at  any  moment — no  responsi- 
ble person  there  to  receive  him — to  see  to  it  that 
his  simple  wants  would  be  provided  for.  I  should 
have  to  interview  Mr.  St.  Leonard  again  to  fix  up 
final  details  as  regarded  Dick.  Who  was  going  to 
look  after  the  cow  about  to  be  separated  from 
us?  Young  Bute  would  be  down  again  with  plans. 
Who  was  going  to  take  him  over  the  house,  ex- 


THEY  AND  I  179 

plain  things  to  him  intelligibly?  The  new  boy 
might  turn  up — this  simple  son  of  the  soil  Miss 
Janie  had  promised  to  dig  out  and  send  along. 
He  would  talk  Berkshire.  Who  would  there 
be  to  understand  him — to  reply  to  him  in  dialect? 
What  was  the  use  of  her  being  impetuous  and 
talking  nonsense? 

She  went  on  cutting  sandwiches.  She  said  they 
were  not  helpless  children.  She  said  if  she  and 
Dick  at  forty-two  hadn't  grit  enough  to  run  a  six- 
roomed  cottage  it  was  time  they  learned. 
"Who's  forty-two?"  I  demanded. 
"We  are,"  explained  Robina,  "  Dick  and  I— be- 
tween us.  We  shall  be  forty-two  next  birthday. 
Nearly  your  own  age." 

11  Veronica,"  she  continued,  "  for  the  next  few 
days  won't  be  a  child  at  all.  She  knows  nothing 
of  the  happy  medium.  She  is  either  herself  or 
she  goes  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  tries  to  be 
an  angel.  Till  about  the  end  of  the  week  it  will 
be  like  living  with  a  vision.  As  for  the  donkey, 
we'll  try  and  make  him  feel  as  much  as  home  as  if 
you  were  here. 

11  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude,  Pa,"  Robina  ex- 
plained, "  but  from  the  way  you  put  it  you  evi- 


180  THEY  AND  I 

dently  regard  yourself  as  the  only  one  among 
us  capable  of  interesting  him.  I  take  it  he  won't 
mind  for  a  night  or  two  sharing  the  shed  with 
the  cow.  If  he  looks  shocked  at  the  suggestion, 
Dick  can  knock  up  a  partition.  I'd  rather  for 
the  present,  till  you  come  down  again,  the  cow 
stopped  where  she  was.  She  helps  to  wake  me  in 
the  morning.  You  may  reckon  you  have  settled 
everything  as  far  as  Dick  is  concerned.  If  you 
talk  to  St.  Leonard  again  for  an  hour  it  will  be 
about  the  future  of  the  Yellow  Races  or  the  pos- 
sibility of  life  in  Jupiter.  If  you  mention  terms  he 
will  be  insulted,  and  if  he  won't  let  you  then  you 
will  be  insulted,  and  the  whole  thing  will  be  off. 
Let  me  talk  to  Janie.  We've  both  of  us  got  sense. 
As  for  Mr.  Bute,  I  know  all  your  ideas  about  the 
house,  and  I  shan't  listen  to  any  of  his  silly  argu- 
ments. What  that  young  man  wants  is  someone 
to  tell  him  what  he's  got  to  do,  and  then  let  there 
be  an  end  of  it.  And  the  sooner  that  handy  boy 
turns  up  the  better.  I  don't  mind  what  he  talks. 
All  I  want  him  to  do  is  to  clean  knives  and  fetch 
water  and  chop  wood.  At  the  worst  I'll  get  that 
home  to  him  by  pantomime.  For  conversation 
he  can  wait  till  you  come  down." 


THEY  AND  I  181 

That  is  the  gist  of  what  she  said.  It  didn't  run 
exactly  as  I  have  put  it  down.  There  were  points 
at  which  I  interrupted,  but  Robina  never  lis- 
tens; she  just  talks  on,  and  at  the  end  she  assumes 
that,  as  a  matter  of  course,  you  have  come  round 
to  her  point  of  view,  and  persuading  her  that  you 
haven't  means  beginning  the  whole  thing  over 
again. 

She  said  I  hadn't  time  to  talk,  and  that  she 
would  write  and  tell  me  everything.  Dick  also 
said  he  would  write  and  tell  me  everything;  and 
that  if  I  felt  moved  to  send  them  down  a  hamper 
— the  sort  of  thing  that,  left  to  themselves,  Fort- 
num  &  Mason  would  put  together  for  a  good-class 
picnic,  say,  for  six  persons — I  might  rely  upon  it 
that  nothing  would  be  wasted. 

Veronica,  by  my  desire,  walked  with  me  to  the 
end  of  the  lane.  I  talked  to  her  very  seriously. 
Her  difficulty  was  that  she  had  not  been  blown  up. 
Had  she  been  blown  up,  then  she  would  have 
known  herself  she  had  done  wrong.  In  the  book 
it  is  the  disobedient  child  that  is  tossed  by  the  bull. 
The  child  that  has  been  sent  with  the  little  basket 
to  visit  the  sick  aunt  may  be  right  in  the  bull's 
way.    That  is  a  bit  of  bad  luck  for  the  bull.    The 


1 82  THEY  AND  I 

poor  bull  is  compelled  to  waste  valuable  time  work- 
ing round  carefully,  so  as  not  to  upset  the  basket. 
If  the  wicked  child  had  sense  (which  in  the  book 
does  not  happen),  it  would,  while  the  bull  was 
dodging  to  get  past  the  good  child,  seize  the 
opportunity  to  move  itself  quickly.  The  wicked 
child  never  looks  round,  but  pegs  along  steadily; 
and  when  the  bull  arrives  it  is  sure  to  be  in  the 
most  convenient  position  for  receiving  moral  les- 
sons. The  good  child,  whatever  its  weight,  crosses 
the  ice  in  safety.  The  bad  child  may  turn  the 
scale  at  two  stone  lighter;  the  ice  will  have  none  of 
him.  "  Don't  you  talk  to  me  about  relative  pres- 
sure to  the  square  inch,"  says  the  indignant  ice. 
"  You  were  unkind  to  your  little  baby  brother  the 
week  before  last:  in  you  go."  Veronica's  argu- 
ment, temperately  and  courteously  expressed,  I 
admit,  came  practically  to  this: 

11 1  may  have  acted  without  sufficient  knowledge 
to  guide  me.  My  education  has  not,  perhaps,  on 
the  whole,  been  ordered  wisely.  Subjects  that  I 
feel  will  never  be  of  the  slightest  interest  or  con- 
sequence to  me  have  been  insisted  upon  with  almost 
tiresome  reiteration.  Matters  that  should  be  use- 
ful and  helpful  to  me — gunpowder,  to  take  but 


THEY  AND  I  183 

one  example — I  have  been  left  In  ignorance  con- 
cerning. About  all  that  I  say  nothing;  people 
have  done  their  best  according  to  their  lights,  no 
doubt.  When,  however,  we  come  to  purity  of 
motives,  singleness  of  intention,  then,  I  maintain, 
I  am  above  reproach.  The  proof  of  this  is  that 
Providence  has  bestowed  upon  me  the  seal  of  its 
approval :  I  was  not  blown  up.  Had  my  conduct 
been  open  to  censure — as  in  certain  quarters  has 
been  suggested — should  I  be  walking  besides  you 
now,  undamaged — not  a  hair  turned,  as  the  saying 
is?  No.  Discriminating  Fate — that  is,  if  any 
reliance  at  all  is  to  be  placed  on  literature  for  the 
young — would  have  made  it  her  business  that  at 
least  I  was  included  in  the  debris.  Instead,  what 
do  we  notice ! — a  shattered  chimney,  a  ruined 
stove,  broken  windows,  a  wreckage  of  household 
utensils;  I,  alone  of  all  things,  miraculously  pre- 
served. I  do  not  wish  to  press  the  point  offen- 
sively, but  really  it  would  almost  seem  that  it  must 
be  you  three — you,  my  dear  parent,  upon  whom 
will  fall  the  bill  for  repairs;  Dick,  apt  to  attach 
too  much  importance,  maybe,  to  his  victuals,  and 
who  for  the  next  few  days  will  be  compelled  to 
exist  chiefly  on  tinned  goods;  Robina,  by  nature 


1 84  THEY  AND  I 

of  a  worrying  disposition,  certain  till  things  get 
straight  again  to  be  next  door  to  off  her  head — 
who  must,  by  reason  of  conduct  into  which  I  do 
not  enquire,  have  merited  chastisement  at  the 
hands  of  Providence.  The  moral  lesson  would 
certainly  appear  to  be  between  you  three.  I — it 
grows  clear  to  me — have  been  throughout  but  the 
innocent  instrument." 

Admit  the  premiss  that  to  be  virtuous  is  to  es- 
cape whipping,  the  argument  is  logical.  I  felt 
that  left  uncombated  it  might  lead  us  into  yet  fur- 
ther trouble. 

"  Veronica,"  I  said,  "  the  time  has  come  to  re- 
veal to  you  a  secret:  literature  is  not  always  a 
safe  guide  to  life." 

"  You  mean "  said  Veronica. 

"  I  mean,"  I  said,  "  that  the  writer  of  books  is, 
generally  speaking,  an  exceptionally  moral  man. 
That  is  what  leads  him  astray:  he  is  too  good. 
This  world  does  not  come  up  to  his  ideas.  It  is 
not  the  world  as  he  would  have  made  it  himself. 
To  satisfy  his  craving  for  morality  he  sets  to  work 
to  make  a  world  of  his  own.  It  is  not  this  world. 
It  is  not  a  bit  like  this  world.  In  a  world  as  it 
should  be,  Veronica,  you  would  undoubtedly  have 


THEY  AND  I  185 

been  blown  up — if  not  altogether,  at  all  events  par- 
tially. What  you  have  to  do,  Veronica,  is,  with  a 
full  heart,  to  praise  Heaven  that  this  is  not  a  per- 
fect world.  If  it  were  I  doubt  very  much,  Veron- 
ica, your  being  here.  That  you  are  here  happy 
and  thriving  proves  that  all  is  not  as  it  should  be. 
The  bull  of  this  world,  feeling  he  wants  to  toss 
somebody,  does  not  sit  upon  himself,  so  to  speak, 
till  the  wicked  child  comes  by.  He  takes  the  first 
child  that  turns  up,  and  thanks  God  for  it.  A 
hundred  to  one  it  is  the  best  child  for  miles 
around.  The  bull  does  not  care.  He  spoils  that 
pattern  child.  He'd  spoil  a  bishop,  feeling  as  he 
does  that  morning.  Your  little  friend  in  the  vel- 
vet suit  who   did  get  himself  blown  up,   at  all 

events  as  regards  the  suit Which  of  you  was 

it  that  thought  of  that  gunpowder,  you  or  he?" 

Veronica  claimed  that  the  inspiration  had  been 
hers. 

"  I  can  easily  believe  it.  And  was  he  anxious 
to  steal  the  gunpowder  and  put  it  on  the  fire,  or 
did  he  have  to  be  persuaded?" 

Veronica  admitted  that  in  the  qualities  of  a  first- 
class  hero  he  was  wanting.  Not  till  it  had  been 
suggested  to  him  that  he  must  at  heart  be  a  cow- 


1 86  THEY  AND  I 

ardy  cowardy  custard  had  he  been  moved  to  take 
a  hand  in  the  enterprise. 

"  A  lad,  clearly,"  I  continued,  "  that  left 
to  himself  would  be  a  comfort  to  his  friends.  And 
the  story  of  the  robbers — your  invention  or 
his?" 

Veronica  was  generously  of  opinion  that  he 
might  have  thought  of  it  had  he  not  been  chiefly 
concerned  at  the  moment  with  the  idea  of  getting 
home  to  his  mother.  As  it  was,  the  clothing  with 
romance  of  incidents  otherwise  bald  and  unin- 
teresting had  fallen  upon  her. 

II  The  good  child  of  the  story.  The  fact  stands 
out  at  every  point.  His  one  failing  an  amiable 
weakness.  Do  you  not  see  it  for  yourself,  Veron- 
ica? In  the  book,  you,  not  he,  would  have  tum- 
bled over  the  mat.  In  this  wicked  world  it  is  the 
wicked  who  prosper.  He,  the  innocent,  the  vir- 
tuous, is  torn  to  rags.  You,  the  villain  of  the 
story,  escape." 

"I  see,"  said  Veronica;  "then  whenever  noth- 
ing happens  to  you  that  means  that  you're  a  wrong 
W 

II I  don't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,  Veronica. 
And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  use  slang.     Dick  is  a 


THEY  AND  I  187 

man,  and  a  man — well,  never  mind  about  a  man. 
You,  Veronica,  must  never  forget  that  you're  a 
lady.  Justice  must  not  be  looked  for  in  this  world. 
Sometimes  the  wicked  get  what  they  deserve. 
More  often  they  don't.  There  seems  to  be  no 
rule.  Follow  the  dictates  of  your  conscience,  Ve- 
ronica, and  blow — I  mean  be  indifferent  to  the 
consequences.  Sometimes  you'll  come  out  all 
right,  and  sometimes  you  won't.  But  the  beautiful 
sensation  will  always  be  with  you :  I  did  right. 
Things  have  turned  out  unfortunately:  but  that's 
not  my  fault.     Nobody  can  blame  me." 

"  But  they  do,"  said  Veronica,  "  they  blame  you 
just  as  if  you'd  meant  to  go  and  do  it." 

11  It  does  not  matter,  Veronica,"  I  pointed  out, 
"the  opinion  of  the  world.  The  good  man  dis- 
regards it.'' 

"  But  they  send  you  to  bed,"  persisted  Veron- 
ica. 

"  Let  them,"  I  said.  "  What  is  bed  so  long  as 
the  voice  of  the  inward  Monitor  consoles  us  with 
the  reflection " 

"  But  it  don't,"  interrupted  Veronica;  "  it  makes 
you  feel  all  the  madder.  It  does,  really." 

"  It  oughtn't  to,"  I  told  her. 


1 88  THEY  AND  I 

"  Then  why  does  it?  "  argued  Veronica.  "  Why 
don't  it  do  what  it  ought  to?  " 

The  trouble  about  arguing  with  children  is  that 
they  will  argue  too. 

"Life's  a  difficult  problem,  Veronica,"  I  al- 
lowed. "  Things  are  not  as  they  ought  to  be,  I 
admit.  But  one  must  not  despair.  Something's 
got  to  be  done." 

"  It's  jolly  hard  on  some  of  us,"  said  Veronica. 
"  Strive  as  you  may,  you  can't  please  everyone. 
And  if  you  just  as  much  as  stand  up  for  yourself, 
oh,  crikey !  " 

"  The  duty  of  the  grown-up  person,  Veronica," 
I  said,  "  is  to  bring  up  the  child  in  the  way  that 
it  should  go.  It  isn't  easy  work,  and  occasionally 
irritability  may  creep  in." 

"  There's  such  a  lot  of  'em  at  it,"  grumbled 
Veronica.  "There  are  times,  between  'em  all, 
when  you  don't  know  whether  you're  standing  on 
your  head  or  your  heels." 

"  They  mean  well,  Veronica,"  I  said.  "  When 
I  was  a  little  boy  I  used  to  think  just  as  you  do. 
But  now " 

"Did  you  ever  get  into  rows?"  interrupted 
Veronica. 


THEY  AND  I  189 

"Did  I  ever? — was  never  out  of  them,  so  far 
as  I  can  recollect.  If  it  wasn't  one  thing,  then 
it  was  another." 

"And  didn't  it  make  you  wild?"  enquired 
Veronica,  "  when  first  of  all  they'd  ask  what  you'd 
got  to  say  and  why  you'd  done  it,  and  then,  when 
you  tried  to  explain  things  to  them,  wouldn't  listen 
to  you?" 

"What  used  to  irritate  me  most,  Veronica,"  I 
replied — "  I  can  remember  it  so  well — was  when 
they  talked  steadily  for  half  an  hour  themselves, 
and  then,  when  I  would  attempt  with  one  sentence 
to  put  them  right  about  the  thing,  turn  round  and 
bully-rag  me  for  being  argumentative." 

"  If  they  would  only  listen,"  agreed  Veronica, 
"  you  might  get  them  to  grasp  things.  But  no, 
they  talk  and  talk,  till  at  the  end  they  don't  know 
what  they  are  talking  about  themselves,  and  then 
they  pretend  it's  your  fault  for  having  made  them 
tired." 

"  I  know,"  I  said,  "  they  always  end  up  like 
that.  '  I  am  tired  of  talking  to  you,'  they  say — 
as  if  we  were  not  tired  of  listening  to  them ! " 

"  And  then  when  you  think,"  said  Veronica, 
"  they  say  you  oughtn't  to  think.    And  if  you  don't 


i9o  THEY  AND  I 

think,  and  let  it  out  by  accident,  then  they  say, 
'Why  don't  you  think?  '  It  don't  seem  as  though 
we  could  do  right.     It  makes  one  almost  despair." 

"  And  it  isn't  even  as  if  they  were  always  right 
themselves,"  I  pointed  out  to  her.  "When  they 
knock  over  a  glass  it  is,  'Who  put  that  glass 
there?'  You'd  think  that  somebody  had  put  it 
there  on  purpose  and  made  it  invisible.  They  are 
not  expected  to  see  a  glass  six  inches  in  front  of 
their  nose,  in  the  place  where  the  glass  ought  to 
be.  The  way  they  talk  you'd  suppose  that  a  glass 
had  no  business  on  a  table.  If  I  broke  it,  then  it 
was  always,  '  Clumsy  little  devil !  ought  to  have  his 
dinner  in  the  nursery.'  If  they  mislay  their  things 
and  can't  find  them,  it's,  '  Who's  been  interfering 
with  my  things?  Who's  been  in  here  rummaging 
about?'  Then  when  they  find  it  they  want  to 
know  indignantly  who  put  it  there.  If  I  could 
not  find  a  thing,  for  the  simple  reason  that  some- 
body had  taken  it  away  and  put  it  somewhere 
else,  then  wherever  they  had  put  it  was  the  right 
place  for  it,  and  I  was  a  little  idiot  for  not  know- 
ing it." 

"  And  of  course  you  mustn't  say  anything," 
commented   Veronica.      "Oh,    no!      If   they   do 


THEY  AND  I  191 

something  silly  and  you  just  point  it  out  to  them, 
then  there  is  always  a  reason  for  it  that  you 
wouldn't  understand.  Oh,  yes !  And  if  you  make 
just  the  slightest  mistake,  like  what  is  natural  to 
all  of  us,  that  is  because  you  are  wicked  and  un- 
feeling and  don't  want  to  be  anything  else." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  we  will  do,  Veronica,"  I 
said;  "we'll  write  a  book.  You  shall  help  me. 
And  in  it  the  children  shall  be  the  wise  and  good 
people  who  never  make  mistakes,  and  they  shall 
boss  the  show — you  know  what  I  mean — look 
after  the  grown-up  people  and  bring  them  up 
properly.  And  everything  the  grown-up  people 
do,  or  don't  do,  will  be  wrong." 

Veronica  clapped  her  hands.  "  No,  will  you, 
really?"  she  said.     "Oh,  do." 

11 1  will  really,"  I  answered.  "  We  will  call  it 
a  moral  tale  for  parents;  and  all  the  children  will 
buy  it  and  give  it  to  their  fathers  and  mothers  and 
such-like  folks  for  their  bithdays,  with  writing  on 
the  title-page,  'From  Johnny,  or  Jenny,  to  dear 
Papa,  or  to  dear  Aunty,  with  every  good  wish  for 
his  or  her  improvement ! '  " 

"Do  you  think  they  will  read  it?"  doubted 
Veronica. 


192  THEY  AND  I 

11  We  will  put  in  it  something  shocking,"  I  sug- 
gested, "  and  get  some  paper  to  denounce  it  as 
a  disgrace  to  English  literature.  And  if  that 
won't  do  it  we  will  say  it  is  a  translation  from 
the  Russian.  The  children  shall  stop  at  home 
and  arrange  what  to  have  for  dinner,  and  the 
grown-up  people  shall  be  sent  to  school.  We  will 
start  them  off  each  morning  with  a  little  satchel. 
They  shall  be  made  to  read  '  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales  ' 
in  the  original  German,  with  notes;  and  learn 
'  Old  Mother  Hubbard '  by  heart  and  explain  the 
grammar." 

"  And  go  to  bed  early,"  suggested  Veronica. 

"  We  will  have  them  all  in  bed  by  eight  o'clock, 
Veronica,  and  they  will  go  cheerfully,  as  if  they 
liked  it,  or  we  will  know  the  reason  why.  We 
will  make  them  say  their  prayers.  Between  our- 
selves, Veronica,  I  don't  believe  they  always  do. 
And  no  reading  in  bed,  and  no  final  glass  of 
whisky  toddy,  or  any  nonsense  of  that  sort.  An 
Abernethy  biscuit  and  perhaps  if  they  are  good  a 
jujube,  and  then  'Good-night,'  and  down  with 
their  head  on  the  pillow.  And  no  calling  out,  and 
no  pretending  they  have  got  a  pain  in  their  tummy 
and  creeping  downstairs  in  their  nightshirts  and 


THEY  AND  I  193 

clamouring  for  brandy.    We  will  be  up  to  all  their 
tricks." 

"  And  they'll  have  to  take  their  medicine,"  Ve- 
ronica remembered. 

"The  slightest  suggestion  of  sulkiness,  the  first 

intimation  that  they  are  not  enjoying  themselves, 

will  mean  cod  liver  oil  in  a  tablespoon,  Veronica." 

"And  we  will  ask  them  why  they  never  use 

their  common-sense,"  chirped  Veronica. 

"That  will  be  our  trouble,  Veronica;  that  they 
won't  have  any  sense  of  any  sort — not  what  we 
shall  deem  sense.  But,  nevertheless,  we  will  be 
just.  We  will  always  give  them  a  reason  why 
they  have  got  to  do  everything  they  don't  want  to 
do,  and  nothing  that  they  want  to  do.  They  won't 
understand  it  and  they  won't  agree  that  it  is  a  rea- 
son; but  they  will  keep  that  to  themselves,  if  they 
are  wise." 

"And  of  course  they  must  not  argue,"  Veronica 
insisted. 

"  If  they  answer  back,  Veronica,  that  will  show 
they  are  cursed  with  an  argumentative  tempera- 
ment which  must  be  rooted  out  at  any  cost,"  I 
agreed;  "  and  if  they  don't  say  anything,  that  will 
prove  them  possessed  of  a  surly  disposition  which 


194  THEY  AND  I 

must  be  checked  at  once,  before  it  develops  into 


a  vice." 


11  And  whatever  we  do  to  them  we  will  tell  them 
it's  for  their  own  good,"  Veronica  chortled. 

"  Of  course  it  will  be  for  their  own  good,"  I 
answered.  "That  will  be  our  chief  pleasure — 
making  them  good  and  happy.  It  won't  be  their 
pleasure,  but  that  will  be  owing  to  their  igno- 


rance." 


"  They  will  be  grateful  to  us  later  on,"  gurgled 
Veronica. 

"  With  that  assurance  we  will  comfort  them 
from  time  to  time,"  I  answered.  "We  will  be 
good  to  them  in  all  ways.  We  will  let  them  play 
games — not  stupid  games,  golf  and  croquet,  that 
do  you  no  good  and  lead  only  to  language  and  dis- 
pute— but  bears  and  wolves  and  whales;  educa- 
tional sort  of  games  that  will  aid  them  in  acquiring 
knowledge  of  natural  history.  We  will  show  them 
how  to  play  Pirates  and  Red  Indians  and  Ogres 
— sensible  play  that  will  help  them  to  develop  their 
imaginative  faculties.  That  is  why  grown-up 
people  are  so  dull;  they  are  never  made  to  think. 
But  now  and  then,"  I  continued,  "  we  will  let  them 
play  their  own  games,  say  on  Wednesday  and  Sat- 


THEY  AND  I  195 

urday  afternoons.  We  will  invite  other  grown- 
ups to  come  to  tea  with  them,  and  let  them  flirt 
in  the  garden,  or  if  wet  make  love  in  the  dining- 
room,  till  nurse  comes  for  them.  But  we,  of 
course,  must  choose  their  friends  for  them — nice, 
well-behaved  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  parents 
of  respectable  children;  because  left  to  themselves 
— well,  you  know  what  they  are !  They  would  just 
as  likely  fall  in  love  with  quite  undesirable  people 
— men  and  women  we  could  not  think  of  having 
about  the  house.  We  will  select  for  them  com- 
panions we  feel  sure  will  be  the  most  suitable  for 
them;  and  if  they  don't  like  them — if  Uncle  Wil- 
liam says  he  can't  bear  the  girl  we  have  invited 
up  to  love  him — that  he  positively  hates  her,  we 
will  tell  him  that  it  is  only  his  wilful  temper,  and 
that  he's  got  to  like  her,  because  she's  good  for 
him;  and  don't  let  us  have  any  of  his  fretfulness. 
And  if  Grandmamma  pouts  and  says  she  won't 
love  old  man  Jones  merely  because  he's  got  a  red 
nose,  or  a  glass  eye,  or  some  silly  reason  of  that 
sort,  we  will  say  to  her:  'All  right,  my  lady,  you 
will  play  with  Mr.  Jones  and  be  nice  to  him, 
or  you  will  spend  the  afternoon  putting  your  room 
tidy;   make   up   your   mind.'      We   will   let   them 


196  THEY  AND  I 

marry  (on  Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoons), 
and  play  at  keeping  house.  And  if  they  quarrel 
we  will  shake  them  and  take  the  babies  away  from 
them,  and  lock  them  up  in  drawers,  and  tell  them 
they  shan't  have  them  again  till  they  are  good." 

"  And  the  more  they  try  to  be  good,  the  more 
it  will  turn  out  that  they  ain't  been  good,"  Veron- 
ica reflected. 

"  Their  goodness  and  their  badness  will  depend 
upon  us  in  more  senses  than  one,  Veronica,"  I 
explained.  "  When  Consols  are  down,  when  the 
east  wind  has  touched  up  our  liver,  they  will  be 
surprised  how  bad  they  are." 

"  And  they  mustn't  ever  forget  what  they've 
ever  been  once  told,"  crowed  Veronica.  "  We 
mustn't  have  to  tell  'em  the  same  thing  over  and 
over  again,  like  we  was  talking  to  brick  walls." 

"  And  if  we  meant  to  tell  them  and  forgot  to 
tell  them,"  I  added,  "  we  will  tell  them  that  they 
ought  not  to  want  us  to  tell  them  a  simple  thing 
like  that,  as  if  they  were  mere  babies.  We  must 
remember  all  these  points." 

"And  if  they  grumble  we'll  tell  them  that's  cos 
they  don't  know  how  happy  they  are.  And  we'll 
tell  them  how  good  we  used  to  be  when I 


THEY  AND  I  197 

say,  don't  you  miss  your  train,  or  I  shall  get  into  a 
row." 

"Great  Scott!  I'd  forgotten  all  about  that 
train,  Veronica,"  I  admitted. 

"  Better  run,"  suggested  Veronica. 

It  sounded  good  advice. 

"  Keep  on  thinking  about  that  book,"  shouted 
Veronica. 

"  Make  a  note  of  things  as  they  occur  to  you," 
I  shouted  back. 

"  What  shall  we  call  it?  "  Veronica  screamed. 

"  '  Why  the  Man  in  the  Moon  looks  sat 
upon,' "  I  shrieked. 

When  I  turned  again  she  was  sitting  on  the  top 
rail  of  the  stile  conducting  an  imaginary  orchestra 
with  one  of  her  own  shoes.  The  six-fifteen  was 
fortunately  twenty  minutes  late. 

I  thought  it  best  to  tell  Ethelbertha  the  truth; 
that  things  had  gone  wrong  with  the  kitchen 
stove. 

"Let  me  know  the  worst,"  she  said.  "Is 
Veronica  hurt?" 

"  The  worst,"  I  said,  "  is  that  I  shall  have  to 
pay  for  a  new  range.   Why,  when  anything  goes 


198  THEY  AND  I 

amiss,  poor  Veronica  should  be  assumed  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  to  be  in  it,  appears  to  me  unjust." 

"  You  are  sure  she's  all  right?  "  persisted  Ethel- 
bertha. 

"  Honest  Injun — confound  those  children  and 
their  slang — I  mean  positively,"  I  answered.  The 
Little  Mother  looked  relieved. 

I  told  her  all  the  trouble  we  had  had  in  con- 
nection with  the  cow.  Her  sympathies  were  chiefly 
with  the  cow.  I  told  her  I  had  hopes  of  Robina's 
developing  into  a  sensible  woman.  We  talked 
quite  a  deal  about  Robina.  We  agreed  that  be- 
tween us  we  had  accomplished  something  rather 
clever. 

"  I  must  get  back  as  soon  as  I  can,"  I  said.  "  I 
don't  want  young  Bute  getting  wrong  ideas  into 
his  head." 

"Who  is  young  Bute?"  she  asked. 

"  The  architect,"  I  explained. 

"I  thought  he  was  an  old  man,"  said  Ethel- 
bertha. 

II  Old  Spreight  is  old  enough,"  I  said.  "  Young 
Bute  is  one  of  his  young  men;  but  he  understands 
his  work,  and  seems  intelligent." 

"What's  he  like?"  she  asked. 


THEY  AND  I  199 

11  Personally,  an  exceedingly  nice  young  fellow. 
There's  a  good  deal  of  sense  in  him.  I  like  a  boy 
who  listens." 

"Good-looking?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  objectionably  so,"  I  replied.  "  A  pleas- 
ant face — particularly  when  he  smiles." 

"  Is  he  married?  "  she  asked. 

11  Really,  it  did  not  occur  to  me  to  ask  him," 
I  admitted.  "  How  curious  you  women  are !  No, 
I  don't  think  so.     I  should  say  not." 

"Why  don't  you  think  so?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  doesn't  give  you  the 
idea  of  a  married  man.  You'll  like  him.  Seems 
so  fond  of  his  sister." 

"  Shall  we  be  seeing  much  of  him?"  she  asked. 

"  A  goodish  deal,"  I  answered.  "  I  expect  he 
will  be  going  down  on  Monday.  Very  annoying, 
this  stove  business." 

"What  is  the  use  of  his  being  there  without 
you?"  Ethelbertha  wanted  to  know. 

"Oh,  he'll  potter  round,"  I  suggested,  "and 
take  measurements.  Dick  will  be  about  to  explain 
things  to  him.  Or,  if  he  isn't,  there's  Robina — 
awkward  thing  is,  Robina  seems  to  have  taken  a 
dislike  to  him." 


200  THEY  AND  I 

"Why  has  she  taken  a  dislike  to  him?"  asked 
Ethelbertha. 

"  Oh,  because  he  mistook  the  back  of  the  house 
for  the  front,  or  the  front  of  the  house  for  the 
back,"  I  explained;  "I  forget  which  now.  Says 
it's  his  smile  that  irritates  her.  She  owns  herself 
there's  no  real  reason." 

"When  will  you  be  going  down  again?" 
Ethelbertha  asked. 

"  On  Thursday  next,"  I  told  her ;  "  stove  or 
no  stove." 

She  said  she  would  come  with  me.  She  felt  the 
change  would  do  her  good,  and  promised  not  to 
do  anything  when  she  got  there.  And  then  I  told 
her  all  that  I  had  done  for  Dick. 

"  The  ordinary  farmer,"  I  pointed  out  to  her, 
"  is  so  often  a  haphazard  type  of  man  with  no 
ideas.  If  successful,  it  is  by  reason  of  a  natural 
instinct  which  cannot  be  taught.  St.  Leonard  has 
studied  the  theory  of  the  thing.  From  him  Dick 
will  learn  all  that  can  be  learnt  about  farming. 
The  selection,  I  felt,  demanded  careful  judgment." 

"But  will  Dick  stick  to  it?"  Ethelbertha  won- 
dered. 

"There,   again,"  I  pointed  out  to  her,   "the 


THEY  AND  I  201 

choice  was  one  calling  for  exceptional  foresight. 
The  old  man — as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  isn't  old  at 
all;  can't  be  very  much  older  than  myself;  I  don't 
know  why  they  all  call  him  the  old  man — has 
formed  a  high  opinion  of  Dick.  His  daughter 
told  me  so,  and  I  have  taken  care  to  let  Dick  know 
it.  The  boy  will  not  care  to  disappoint  him. 
Her  mother " 

"Whose  mother?"  interrupted  Ethelbertha. 

"Janie's  mother,  Mrs.  St.  Leonard,"  I  ex- 
plained. "  She  also  has  formed  a  good  opinion 
of  him.  The  children  like  him.  Janie  told  me 
so." 

"She  seems  to  do  a  goodish  deal  of  talking, 
this  Miss  Janie,"  remarked  Ethelbertha. 

"  You  will  like  her,"  I  said.  "  She  is  a  charm- 
ing girl — so  sensible,  and  good,  and  unselfish, 
and " 

"Who  told  you  all  this  about  her?"  inter- 
rupted Ethelbertha. 

"  You  can  see  it  for  yourself,"  I  answered. 
"  The  mother  appears  to  be  a  nonentity,  and  St. 
Leonard  himself — well,  he  is  not  a  business  man. 
It  is  Janie  who  manages  everything — keeps  every- 
lg  going. 


202  THEY  AND  I 

"What  is  she  like?"  asked  Ethelbertha. 

"  I  am  telling  you,"  I  said.  "  She  is  so  practi- 
cal, and  yet  at  the  same  time " 

"  In  appearance,  I  mean,"  explained  Ethel- 
bertha. 

"  How  you  women,"  I  said,  "  do  worry  about 
mere  looks!  What  does  it  matter?  If  you  want 
to  know,  it  is  that  sort  of  face  that  grows  upon 
you.  At  first  you  do  not  notice  how  beautiful 
it  is,  but  later  when  you  come  to  look  into 
it " 

11  And  has  she  also  formed  a  high  opinion  of 
Dick?"  interrupted  Ethelbertha. 

"  She  will  be  disappointed  in  him,"  I  said,  "  if 
he  does  not  work  hard  and  stick  to  it.  They  will 
all  be  disappointed  in  him." 

"What's  it  got  to  do  with  them?"  demanded 
Ethelbertha. 

11  I'm  not  thinking  about  them,"  I  said.  "  What 
I  look  at  is " 

"  I  don't  like  her,"  said  Ethelbertha.  "  I  don't 
like  any  of  them." 

11  But "     She  didn't  seem  to  be  listening. 

"I  know  that  class  of  man,"  she  said;  "and 
the  wife  appears,  if  anything,  to  be  worse.  As 
for  the  girl " 


THEY  AND  I  203 

"  When  you  come  to  know  them,"  I  said. 

She  said  she  didn't  want  to  know  them.  She 
wanted  to  go  down  on  Monday,  early. 

I  got  her  to  see — it  took  some  little  time — the 
disadvantages  of  this.  We  should  only  be  add- 
ing to  Robina's  troubles;  and  change  of  plan  now 
would  unsettle  Dick's  mind. 

"  He  has  promised  to  write  me,"  I  said,  "  and 
tell  me  the  result  of  his  first  day's  experience.  Let 
us  wait  and  hear  what  he  says." 

She  said  that  whatever  could  have  possessed 
her  to  let  me  take  those  poor  unfortunate  children 
away  from  her,  and  muddle  up  everything  without 
her,  was  a  mystery  to  herself.  She  hoped  that,  at 
least,  I  had  done  nothing  irrevocable  in  the  case 
of  Veronica. 

"  Veronica,"  I  said,  "  is  really  wishful,  I  think, 
to  improve.    I  have  bought  her  a  donkey." 

"A  what?  "  exclaimed  Ethelbertha. 

"A  donkey,"  I  repeated.  "The  child  took  a 
fancy  to  it,  and  we  all  agreed  it  might  help  to 
steady  her — give  her  a  sense  of  responsibility." 

"  I  somehow  felt  you  hadn't  overlooked  Veron- 
ica," said  Ethelbertha. 

I  thought  it  best  to  change  the  conversation. 
She  seemed  in  a  fretful  mood. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Robina's  letter  was  dated  Monday  evening,  and 
reached  us  Tuesday  morning. 

"I  hope  you  caught  your  train,"  she  wrote. 
"Veronica  did  not  get  back  till  half-past  six. 
She  informed  me  that  you  and  she  had  found  a 
good  deal  to  talk  about,  and  that  '  one  thing  had 
led  to  another.'  She  is  a  quaint  young  imp,  but 
I  think  your  lecture  must  have  done  her  good. 
Her  present  attitude  is  that  of  gentle  forbearance 
to  all  around  her — not  without  its  dignity.  She 
has  not  snorted  once,  and  at  times  is  really  help- 
ful. I  have  given  her  an  empty  scribbling  diary 
we  found  in  your  desk,  and  most  of  her  spare  time 
she  remains  shut  up  with  it  in  the  bedroom.  She 
tells  me  you  and  she  are  writing  a  book  together. 
I  asked  her  what  about,  She  waved  me  aside  with 
the  assurance  that  I  would  know  '  all  in  good 
time,'  and  that  it  was  going  to  do  good.  I  caught 
sight  of  just  the  title-page  last  night.  It  was  lying 
open  on  the  dressing  table:  'Why  the  Man  in 
the  Moon  looks  sat  upon.'     It  sounds  like  a  title 

204 


THEY  AND  I  205 

of  yours.  But  I  would  not  look  further,  though 
tempted.  She  has  drawn  a  picture  underneath. 
It  is  really  not  bad.  The  old  gentleman  really 
does  look  sat  upon,  and  intensely  disgusted. 

'"'Sir  Robert' — his  name  being  Theodore, 
which  doesn't  seem  to  suit  him — turns  out  to  be 
the  only  son  of  a  widow,  a  Mrs.  Foy,  our  next- 
door  neighbour  to  the  south.  We  met  her  coming 
out  of  church  on  Sunday  morning.  She  was  still 
crying.  Dick  took  Veronica  on  ahead,  and  I 
walked  part  of  the  way  home  with  them.  Her 
grandfather,  it  appears,  was  killed  many  years 
ago  by  the  bursting  of  a  boiler;  and  she  is  haunted, 
poor  lady,  by  the  conviction  that  Theodore  is  the 
inheritor  of  an  hereditary  tendency  to  getting  him- 
self blown  up.  She  attaches  no  blame  to  us,  see- 
ing in  Saturday's  catastrophe  only  the  hand  of 
the  Family  Curse.  I  tried  to  comfort  her  with 
the  idea  that  the  Curse  having  spent  itself  upon  a 
futile  effort,  nothing  further  need  now  be  feared 
from  it;  but  she  persists  in  taking  the  gloomier 
view  that  in  wrecking  our  kitchen,  Theodore's 
1  Doom,'  as  she  calls  it,  was  merely  indulging  in 
a  sort  of  dress  rehearsal;  the  finishing  performance 
may  be  relied  upon  to  follow.     It  sounds  ridicu- 


206  THEY  AND  I 

lous,  but  the  poor  woman  was  so  desperately  in 
earnest  that  when  an  unlucky  urchin,  coming  out  of 
a  cottage  we  were  passing,  tripped  on  the  doorstep 
and  let  fall  a  jug,  we  both  screamed  at  the  same 
time,  and  were  equally  surprised  to  find  '  Sir  Rob- 
ert '  still  between  us  and  all  in  one  piece.  I 
thought  it  foolish  to  discuss  all  this  before  the 
child  himself,  but  did  not  like  to  stop  her.  As  a 
result,  he  regards  himself  evidently  as  the  chosen 
foe  of  Heaven,  and  is  not,  unnaturally,  proud  of 
himself.  She  called  here  this  (Monday)  after- 
noon to  leave  cards;  and,  at  her  request,  I  showed 
her  the  kitchen  and  the  mat  over  which  he  had 
stumbled.  She  seemed  surprised  that  the  '  Doom  ' 
had  let  slip  so  favourable  a  chance  of  accom- 
plishing its  business,  and  gathered  from  the  fact 
added  cause  for  anxiety.  Evidently  something 
much  more  thorough  is  in  store  for  Master  Theo- 
dore. It  was  only  half  a  pound  of  gunpowder, 
she  told  me.  Doctor  Smallboy's  gardener  had 
bought  it  for  the  purpose  of  raising  the  stump 
of  an  old  elm-tree,  and  had  left  it  for  a  moment 
on  the  grass  while  he  had  returned  to  the  house 
for  more  brown  paper.  She  seemed  pleased  with 
the  gardener,  who,  as  she  said,  might,  if  dishon- 


THEY  AND  I  207 

estly  inclined,  have  charged  her  for  a  pound.  I 
wanted  to  pay  for — at  all  events — our  share,  but 
she  would  not  take  a  penny.  Her  late  lamented 
grandfather  she  regards  as  the  person  responsible 
for  the  entire  incident,  and  perhaps  it  may  be  as 
well  not  to  disturb  her  view.  Had  I  suggested  it, 
I  feel  sure  she  would  have  seen  the  justice  of  her 
providing  us  with  a  new  kitchen  range. 

"  Wildly  exaggerated  accounts  of  the  affair  are 
flying  round  the  neighbourhood;  and  my  chief  fear 
is  that  Veronica  may  discover  she  is  a  local 
celebrity.  Your  sudden  disappearance  is  supposed 
to  have  been  heavenward.  An  old  farm  labourer 
who  saw  you  pass  on  your  way  to  the  station  speaks 
of  you  as  '  the  ghost  of  the  poor  gentleman  him- 
self; and  fragments  of  clothing  found  anywhere 
within  a  radius  of  two  miles  are  being  preserved, 
I  am  told,  as  specimens  of  your  remains.  Boots 
would  appear  to  have  been  your  chief  apparel. 
Seven  pairs  have  already  been  collected  from  the 
surrounding  ditches.  Among  the  more  public- 
spirited  there  is  talk  of  using  you  to  start  a  local 
museum." 

These  first  three  paragraphs  I  did  not  read  to 


208  THEY  AND  I 

Ethelbertha.  Fortunately  they  just  filled  the  first 
sheet,  which  I  took  an  opportunity  of  slipping 
into  my  pocket  unobserved. 

"The  new  boy  arrived  on  Sunday  morning," 
she  continued.  "  His  name — if  I  have  got  it  right 
— is  William.  Anyhow,  that  is  the  nearest  I  can 
get  to  it.  His  other  name,  if  any,  I  must  leave  to 
you  to  extract  from  him  yourself.  It  may  be 
Berkshire  that  he  talks,  but  it  sounds  more  like 
barking.  Please  excuse  the  pun;  but  I  have  just 
been  talking  to  him  for  half  an  hour,  trying  to 
make  him  understand  that  I  want  him  to  go  home, 
and  maybe,  as  a  result,  I  am  feeling  a  little  hysteri- 
cal. Anything  more  rural  I  cannot  imagine.  But 
he  is  anxious  to  learn,  and  a  fairly  wide  field  is  in 
front  of  him.  I  caught  him  after  our  breakfast 
on  Sunday  calmly  throwing  everything  left  over 
on  to  the  dust-heap.  I  pointed  out  to  him  the 
wickedness  of  wasting  nourishing  food,  and  im- 
pressed upon  him  that  the  proper  place  for  vic- 
tuals was  inside  us.  He  never  answers.  He  stands 
stock  still,  with  his  mouth  as  wide  open  as  it  will 
go — which  is  saying  a  good  deal — and  one  trusts 
that  one's  words  are  entering  into  him.     All  Sun- 


THEY  AND  I  209 

day  afternoon  he  was  struggling  valiantly  against 
an  almost  supernatural  sleepiness.  After  tea  he 
got  worse,  and  I  began  to  think  he  would  be  no 
use  to  me.  We  none  of  us  ate  much  supper;  and 
Dick,  who  appears  able  to  understand  him,  helped 
him  to  carry  the  things  out.  I  heard  them  talking, 
and  then  Dick  came  back  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him.  '  He  wants  to  know,'  said  Dick,  '  if 
he  can  leave  the  corned  beef  over  till  to-morrow. 
Because,  if  he  eats  it  all  to-night,  he  doesn't  think 
he  will  be  able  to  walk  home.' 

"Veronica  takes  great  interest  in  him.  She 
has  evidently  a  motherly  side  to  her  character, 
for  which  we  none  of  us  have  given  her  credit. 
She  says  she  is  sure  there  is  good  in  him.  She 
sits  beside  him  while  he  chops  wood,  and  tells  him 
carefully  selected  stories,  calculated,  she  argues, 
to  develop  his  intelligence.  She  is  careful,  more- 
over, not  to  hurt  his  feelings  by  any  display  of 
superiority.  '  Of  course,  anyone  leading  a  useful 
life,  such  as  yours,'  I  overheard  her  saying  to  him 
this  morning,  '  don't  naturally  get  much  time  for 
reading.  I've  nothing  else  to  do,  you  see,  'cept  to 
improve  myself.' 

"  The  donkey  arrived  this  afternoon  while  I 


210  THEY  AND  I 

was  out — galloping,  I  am  given  to  understand, 
with  'Opkins  on  his  back.  There  seems  to  be  some 
secret  between  those  two.  We  have  tried  him 
with  hay,  and  we  have  tried  him  with  thistles; 
but  he  seems  to  prefer  bread-and-butter.  I  have 
not  been  able  as  yet  to  find  out  whether  he  takes 
tea  or  coffee  in  the  morning.  But  he  is  an  animal 
that  evidently  knows  his  own  mind,  and  fortu- 
nately both  are  in  the  house.  We  are  putting  him 
up  for  to-night  with  the  cow,  who  greeted  him  at 
first  with  enthusiasm  and  wanted  to  adopt  him, 
but  has  grown  cold  to  him  since  on  discovering 
that  he  is  not  a  calf.  I  have  been  trying  to  make 
friends  with  her,  but  she  is  so  very  unresponsive. 
She  doesn't  seem  to  want  anything  but  grass,  and 
prefers  to  get  that  for  herself.  She  doesn't  seem 
to  want  to  be  happy  ever  again. 

"  A  funny  thing  happened  in  church.  I  was 
forgetting  to  tell  you.  The  St.  Leonards  occupy 
two  pews  at  the  opposite  end  from  the  door. 
They  were  all  there  when  we  arrived,  with  the 
exception  of  the  old  gentleman  himself.  He  came 
in  just  before  the  '  Dearly  Beloved,'  when  every- 
body was  standing  up.  A  running  fire  of  sup- 
pressed titters  followed  him  up  the  aisle,  and  some 


THEY  AND  I  211 

of  the  people  laughed  outright.  I  could  see  no 
reason  why.  He  looked  a  dignified  old  gentle- 
man in  his  grey  hair  and  tightly  buttoned  frock 
coat,  which  gives  him  a  somewhat  military  ap- 
pearance. But  when  he  came  level  with  our  pew 
I  understood.  Hurrying  back  from  his  morning 
round,  and  with  no  one  there  to  superintend  him, 
the  dear  old  absent-minded  thing  had  forgotten  to 
change  his  breeches.  From  a  little  above  the  knee 
upward  he  was  a  perfect  Christian;  but  his  legs 
were  just  those  of  a  disreputable  sinner. 

"  'What's  the  joke?  '  he  whispered  to  me  as  he 
passed — I  was  in  a  corner  seat.  '  Have  I  missed 
it?' 

"  We  called  round  on  them  after  lunch,  and  at 
once  I  was  appealed  to  for  my  decision. 

" '  Now,  here's  a  plain  sensible  girl,'  exclaimed 
the  old  gentleman  the  moment  I  entered  the  room. 
(You  will  notice  I  put  no  comma  after  '  plain.' 
I  am  taking  it  he  did  not  intend  one.  You  can 
employ  one  adjective  to  qualify  another,  can't 
you?)  '  And  I  will  put  it  to  her,  What  difference 
can  it  make  to  the  Almighty  whether  I  go  to 
church  in  trousers  or  in  breeches?' 

" '  I   do   not   see,'    retorted   Mrs.    St.   Leonard 


212  THEY  AND  I 

somewhat  coldly,  '  that  Miss  Robina  is  in  any  bet- 
ter position  than  myself  to  speak  with  authority 
on  the  views  of  the  Almighty ' — which  I  felt  was 
true.  '  If  it  makes  no  difference  to  the  Almighty, 
then  why  not,  for  my  sake,  trousers  ? ' 

11 '  The  essential  thing,'  he  persisted,  '  is  a  con- 
trite heart.'    He  was  getting  very  cross. 

" '  It  may  just  as  well  be  dressed  respectably,' 
was  his  wife's  opinion.  He  left  the  room,  slam- 
ming the  door. 

"  I  do  like  Janie  the  more  and  more  I  see  of 
her.  I  do  hope  she  will  let  me  get  real  chums 
with  her.  She  does  me  so  much  good."  (I  read 
that  bit  twice  over  to  Ethelbertha,  pretending  I 
had  lost  the  place.)  "  I  suppose  it  is  having  rather 
a  silly  mother  and  unpractical  father  that  has  made 
her  so  capable.  If  you  and  Little  Mother  had 
been  proper  sort  of  parents  I  might  have  been 
quite  a  decent  sort  of  girl.  But  it's  too  late  finding 
fault  with  you  now.  I  suppose  I  must  put  up  with 
you.  She  works  so  hard,  and  is  so  unselfish.  But 
she  is  not  like  some  good  people,  who  make  you 
feel  it  is  hopeless  your  trying  to  be  good.  She 
gets  cross  and  impatient;  and  then  she  laughs  at 
herself,  and  gets  right  again  that  way.    Poor  Mrs. 


THEY  AND  I  213 

St.  Leonard!     I  cannot  help  feeling  sorry  for  her. 
She  would  have  been  so  happy  as  the  wife  of  a 
really  respectable  City  man,  who  would  have  gone 
off  every  morning  with  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole 
and  have  worn  a  white  waistcoat  on  Sundays.     I 
don't  believe  what  they  say:  that  husbands  and 
wives  should  be  the  opposite  of  one  another.    Mr. 
St.    Leonard   ought   to    have   married   a   brainy 
woman,  who  would  have  discussed  philosophy  with 
him,  and  have  been  just  as  happy  drinking  beer 
out  of  a  teacup:  you  know  the  sort  I  mean.     If 
ever  I  marry  it  will  be  a  short-tempered  man  who 
loves  music  and  is  a  good  dancer;  and  if  I  find 
out  too  late  he's  clever  I'll  run  away  from  him. 

"  Dick  has  not  yet  come  home — nearly  eight 
o'clock.  Veronica  is  supposed  to  be  in  bed,  but 
I  can  hear  things  falling.  Poor  boy!  I  expect 
he'll  be  tired;  but  to-day  is  an  exception.  Three 
hundred  sheep  have  had  to  be  brought  all  the  way 
from  Ilsley,  and  must  be  '  herded ' — I  fancy  it  is 
called — before  anybody  can  think  of  supper.  I 
saw  to  it  that  he  had  a  good  dinner. 

"  And  now  to  come  to  business.  Young  Bute 
has  been  here  all  day,  and  has  only  just  left.  He 
is  coming  down  again  on  Friday — which,  by  the 


2i4  THEY  AND  I 

way,  don't  forget  is  Mrs.  St.  Leonard's  '  At 
Home'  day.  She  hopes  she  may  then  have  the 
pleasure  of  making  your  acquaintance,  and  thinks 
that  possibly  there  may  be  present  one  or  two 
people  we  may  like  to  know.  From  which  I 
gather  that  half  the  neighbourhood  has  been  spe- 
cially invited  to  meet  you.  So  mind  you  bring  a 
frock-coat;  and  if  Little  Mother  can  put  her  hand 
easily  on  my  pink  muslin  with  the  spots — it  is  either 
in  my  wardrobe  or  else  in  the  bottom  drawer  in 
Veronica's  room,  if  it  isn't  in  the  cardboard  box 
underneath  mother's  bed — you  might  slip  it  into 
your  bag.  But  whatever  you  do  don't  crush  it. 
The  sash  I  feel  sure  mother  put  away  somewhere 
herself.  He  sees  no  reason — I'm  talking  now 
about  young  Bute, — if  you  approve  his  plans,  why 
work  should  not  be  commenced  immediately. 
Shall  I  write  old  Slee  to  meet  you  at  the  house  on 
Friday?  From  all  accounts  I  don't  think  you'll 
do  better.  He  is  on  the  spot,  and  they  say  he  is 
most  reasonable.  But  you  have  to  get  estimates, 
don't  you?  He  suggests — Mr.  Bute,  I  mean — ■ 
throwing  what  used  to  be  the  dairy  into  the  pas- 
sage, which  will  make  a  hall  big  enough  for  any- 
thing.    We  might  even  give  a   dance  in  it,  he 


THEY  AND  I  215 

thinks.    But  all  this  you  will  be  able  to  discuss  with 
him  on  Friday.     He  has  evidently  taken  a  great 
deal  of  pains,  and  some  of  his  suggestions  sound 
sensible.     But  of  course  he  must  fully  understand 
that  it  is  what  we  want,  not  what  he  thinks,  that 
is  important.    I  told  him  you  said  I  could  have  my 
room  exactly  as  I  liked  it  myself,  and  I  have  ex- 
plained to  him  my  ideas.     He  seemed  at  first  to 
be  under  the  impression  that  I  didn't  know  what 
I  was  talking  about,  so  I  made  it  quite  clear  to 
him  that  I  did,  with  the  result  that  he  has  con- 
sented to  carry  out  my  instructions,  on  condition 
that  I  put  them  down  in  black  and  white — which 
I  think  just  as  well,  as  then  there  can  be  no  excuse 
afterwards  for  argument.     I  like  him  better  than 
I  did  the  first  time.    About  everything  else  he  can 
be    fairly   amiable.      It   is  when   he   talks   about 
'  frontal  elevations '  and  '  ground  plans '  that  he 
irritates  me.     Tell  Little  Mother  that  I'll  write 
her  to-morrow.     Couldn't  she  come  down  with 
you  on  Friday?     Everything  will  be  ship-shape 

by  then;  and " 

The  remainder  was  of  a  nature  more  private. 
She  concluded  with  a  postscript,  which  also  I  did 
not  read  to  Ethelbertha. 


2i6  THEY  AND  I 

u  Thought  I  had  finished  telling  you  everything, 
when  quite  a  stylish  rat-tat  sounded  on  the  door. 
I  placed  an  old  straw  hat  of  Dick's  in  a  promi- 
nent position,  called  loudly  to  an  imaginary  '  John  ' 
not  to  go  without  the  letters,  and  then  opened  it. 
He  turned  out  to  be  the  local  reporter.  I  need 
not  have  been  alarmed.  He  was  much  the  more 
nervous  of  the  two,  and  was  so  full  of  excuses  that 
had  I  not  come  to  his  rescue  I  believe  he  would 
have  gone  away  forgetting  what  he'd  come  for. 
Nothing  save  an  overwhelming  sense  of  duty  to 
the  Public  (with  a  capital  P)  could  have  induced 
him  to  inflict  himself  upon  me.  Could  I  give  him 
a  few  details  which  would  enable  him  to  set  ru- 
mour right?  I  immediately  saw  visions  of  head- 
lines :  '  Domestic  Tragedy ! '  '  Eminent  Author 
blown  up  by  his  own  Daughter! '  '  Once  Happy 
Home  now  a  Mere  Wreck ! '  It  seemed  to  me 
our  only  plan  was  to  enlist  this  amiable  young  man 
upon  our  side;  I  hope  I  did  not  overdo  it.  My 
idea  was  to  convey  the  impression  that  one  glance 
at  him  had  convinced  me  he  was  the  best  and 
noblest  of  mankind;  that  I  felt  I  could  rely  upon 
his  wit  and  courage  to  save  us  from  a  notoriety  that, 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  would  sadden  my  whole 


THEY  AND  I  217 

life;  and  that  if  he  did  so  eternal  gratitude  and 
admiration  would  be  the  least  I  could  lay  at  his 
feet.  I  can  be  nice  when  I  try.  People  have  said 
so.  We  parted  with  only  a  pressure  of  the  hand, 
and  I  hope  he  won't  get  into  trouble,  but  I  feel 
The  Berkshire  Courier  is  going  to  be  deprived  of 
its  prey.  Dick  has  just  come  in.  He  promises 
to  talk  when  he  has  finished  eating." 

Dick's  letter,  for  which  Ethelbertha  seemed  to 
be  strangely  impatient,  reached  us  on  Wednesday 
morning. 

11  If  ever  you  want  to  find  out,  Dad,  what  hard 
work  really  means,  you  try  farming,"  wrote  Dick; 
"  and  yet  I  believe  you  would  like  it.  Hasn't  some 
old  Johnny  somewhere  described  it  as  the  poetry 
of  the  ploughshare?  Why  did  we  ever  take  to 
bothering  about  anything  else — shutting  ourselves 
up  in  stuffy  offices,  worrying  ourselves  to  death 
about  a  lot  of  rubbish  that  isn't  any  good  to  any- 
body? I  wish  I  could  put  it  properly,  Dad;  you 
would  see  just  what  I  mean.  Why  don't  we  live 
in  simply-built  houses  and  get  most  everything  we 
want  out  of  the  land:  which  we  easily  could?  You 
take  a  dozen  poor  devils  away  from  walking  be- 


218  THEY  AND  I 

hind  the  plough  and  put  them  down  into  coal- 
mines, and  set  them  running  about  half-naked 
among  a  lot  of  roaring  furnaces,  and  between  them 
they  turn  out  a  machine  that  does  the  ploughing 
for  them.  What  is  the  sense  of  it?  Of  course 
some  things  are  useful.  I  would  like  a  motor- 
car, and  railways  and  steamboats  all  right;  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  half  the  fiddle-faddles  we  fancy 
we  want  we'd  be  just  as  well,  if  not  better,  with- 
out, and  there  would  be  all  that  time  and  energy 
to  spare  for  the  sort  of  things  that  everybody 
ought  to  have.  It's  everywhere  just  like  it  was  at 
school.  They  kept  us  so  hard  at  it,  studying 
Greek  roots,  we  hadn't  time  to  learn  English 
grammar.  Look  at  young  Dennis  Yewbury.  He's 
got  two  thousand  acres  up  in  Scotland.  He  could 
lead  a  jolly  life  turning  the  place  into  some  real 
use.  Instead  of  which  he  lets  it  all  run  to  waste 
for  nothing  but  to  breed  a  few  hundred  birds 
that  wouldn't  keep  a  single  family  alive;  while 
he  works  from  morning  till  night  at  humbugging 
people  in  a  beastly  hole  in  the  City,  just  to  fill  his 
house  with  a  host  of  silly  gimcracks  and  dress  up 
himself  and  his  women-folk  like  peacocks.  Of 
course  we  would  always  want  clever  chaps  like  you 


THEY  AND  I  219 

to  tell  us  stories ;  and  doctors  we  couldn't  do  with- 
out, though  I  guess  if  we  were  leading  sensible 
lives  we'd  be  able  to  get  along  with  about  half  of 
them.  It  seems  to  me  that  what  we  want  is  a  com- 
fortable home,  enough  to  eat  and  drink,  and  a  few 
fal-lal  sort  of  things  to  make  the  girls  look  pretty; 
and  that  all  the  rest  is  rot.  We  would  all  of  us 
have  time  then  to  think  and  play  a  bit,  and  if  we 
were  all  working  fairly  at  something  really  useful 
and  were  contented  with  our  own  share,  there'd 
be  enough  for  everybody. 

"I  suppose  this  is  all  nonsense,  but  I  wish  it 
wasn't.  Anyway,  it's  what  I  mean  to  do  myself, 
and  I'm  awfully  much  obliged  to  you,  Dad,  for 
giving  me  this  chance.  You've  hit  the  right  nail 
on  the  head  this  time.  Farming  was  what  I  was 
meant  for;  I  feel  it.  I  would  have  hated  being 
a  barrister,  setting  people  by  the  ears  and  making 
my  living  out  of  other  people's  troubles.  Being 
a  farmer  you  feel  that  in  doing  good  to  yourself 
you  are  doing  good  all  round.  Miss  Janie  agrees 
with  all  I  say.  I  think  she  is  one  of  the  most 
sensible  girls  I  have  ever  come  across,  and  Robin 
likes  her  awfully.  So  is  the  old  man:  he's  a  brick. 
I  think  he  has  taken  a  liking  to  me,  and  I  know 


220  THEY  AND  I 

I  have  to  him.  He's  the  dearest  old  fellow  imagin- 
able. The  very  turnips  he  seems  to  think  of  as 
though  they  were  so  many  rows  of  little  children. 
And  he  makes  you  see  the  inside  of  things.  Take 
fields  now,  for  instance.  I  used  to  think  a  field 
was  just  a  field.  You  scraped  it  about  and  planted 
it  with  seeds,  and  everything  else  depended  on 
the  weather.  Why,  Dad,  it's  alive!  There  are 
good  fields  that  want  to  get  on — that  are  grate- 
ful for  everything  you  do  for  them,  and  take  a 
pride  in  themselves.  And  there  are  brutes  of  fields 
that  you  feel  you  want  to  kick.  You  can  waste  a 
hundred  pounds'  worth  of  manure  on  them,  and 
it  only  makes  them  more  stupid  than  they  were 
before.  One  of  our  fields — a  wizened-looking 
eleven-acre  strip,  bordering  the  Fyfield  road — he 
has  christened  Mrs.  Gummidge:  it  seems  to  feel 
everything  more  than  any  other  field.  From  what- 
ever point  of  the  compass  the  wind  blows  that  field 
gets  the  most  harm  from  it.  You  would  think 
to  look  at  it  after  a  storm  that  there  hadn't  been 
any  rain  in  any  other  field — that  that  particular 
field  must  have  got  it  all ;  while  two  days'  sunshine 
has  the  effect  upon  it  that  a  six  weeks'  drought 
would  on  any  other  field.     His  theory   (he  must 


THEY  AND  I  221 

have  a  theory  to  account  for  everything;  it  com- 
forts him.  He  has  just  hit  upon  a  theory  that 
explains  why  twins  are  born  with  twice  as  much 
original  sin  as  other  children,  and  doesn't  seem  to 
mind  now  what  they  do)  is  that  each  odd  corner 
of  the  earth  has  gained  a  character  of  its  own  from 
the  spirits  of  the  countless  dead  men  buried  in  its 
bosom.  '  Robbers  and  thieves,'  he  will  say,  kick- 
ing the  sod  of  some  field  all  stones  and  thistles; 
*  silly  fighting  men  who  thought  God  built  the 
world  merely  to  give  them  the  fun  of  knocking 
it  about.  Look  at  them,  the  fools!  stones  and 
thistles — thistles  and  stones:  that  is  their  notion 
of  a  field.'  Or,  leaning  over  the  gate  of  some 
field  of  rich-smelling  soil,  he  will  stretch  out  his 
arms  as  though  to  caress  it :  '  Brave  lads ! '  he  will 
say;  'kindly  honest  fellows  who  loved  the  poor 
peasant  folk.'  I  fancy  he  has  not  got  much  sense 
of  humour;  or  if  he  has,  it  is  a  humour  he  leaves 
you  to  find  out  for  yourself.  One  does  not  feel 
one  wants  to  laugh,  listening  even  to  his  most 
whimsical  ideas ;  and  anyhow  it  is  a  fact  that  of  two 
fields  quite  close  to  one  another,  one  will  be  worth 
ten  pounds  an  acre  and  the  other  dear  at  half  a 
crown,  and  there  seems  to  be  nothing  to  explain  it. 


222  THEY  AND  I 

We  have  a  seven-acre  patch  just  halfway  up  the 
hill.  He  says  he  never  passes  it  without  taking 
off  his  hat  to  it.  Whatever  you  put  in  it  does 
well;  while  other  fields,  try  them  with  what  you 
will,  it  is  always  the  very  thing  they  did  not  want. 
You  might  fancy  them  fractious  children,  always 
crying  for  the  other  child's  bun.  There  is  really 
no  reason  for  its  being  such  a  good  field,  except 
its  own  pluck.  It  faces  the  east,  and  the  wood 
for  half  the  day  hides  it  from  the  sun;  but  it  makes 
the  best  of  everything,  and  even  on  the  greyest 
day  it  seems  to  be  smiling  at  you.  '  Some  happy- 
hearted  Mother  Thing — a  singer  of  love  songs 
the  while  she  toiled,'  he  will  have  it,  must  lie  sleep- 
ing there.  By-the-by,  what  a  jolly  field  Janie  would 
makel    Don't  you  think  so,  Dad? 

"What  the  dickens,  Dad,  have  you  done  to 
Veronica?  She  wanders  about  everywhere  with 
an  exercise  book  in  her  hand,  and  when  you  say 
anything  to  her,  instead  of  answering  you  back, 
she  sits  plump  down  wherever  she  is  and  writes 
for  all  she's  worth.  She  won't  say  what  she's  up 
to.  She  says  it's  a  private  matter  between  you 
and  her,  and  that  later  on  things  are  going  to  be 
seen  in  their  true  light.     I  told  her  this  morning 


THEY  AND  I  223 

what  I  thought  of  her  for  forgetting  to  feed  the 
donkey.  I  was  prepared,  of  course,  for  a  hundred 
explanations:  First,  that  she  had  meant  to  feed 
the  donkey;  secondly,  that  it  wasn't  her  place  to 
feed  the  donkey;  thirdly,  that  the  donkey  would 
have  been  fed  if  circumstances  over  which  she  had 
no  control  had  not  arisen  rendering  it  impossible 
for  her  to  feed  the  donkey;  fourthly,  that  the 
morning  wasn't  the  proper  time  to  feed  the  don- 
key, and  so  on.  Instead  of  which  out  she  whips 
this  ridiculous  book  and  asks  me  if  I  would  mind 
saying  it  over  again. 

"  I  keep  forgetting  to  ask  Janie  what  it  is  he 
has  been  accustomed  to.  We  have  tried  him  with 
thistles,  and  we've  tried  him  with  hay.  The  this- 
tles he  scratches  himself  against;  but  for  the  hay 
he  appears  to  have  no  use  whatever.  Robin  thinks 
his  idea  is  to  save  us  trouble.  We  are  not  to  get 
in  anything  especially  for  him — whatever  we  may 
happen  to  be  having  ourselves  he  will  put  up  with. 
Bread-and-butter  cut  thick,  or  a  slice  of  cake  with 
an  apple  seems  to  be  his  notion  of  a  light  lunch; 
and  for  drink  he  fancies  tea  out  of  a  slop-basin 
with  two  knobs  of  sugar  and  plenty  of  milk.  Robin 
says  it's  waste  of  time  taking  his  meals  out  to  him. 


224  THEY  AND  I 

She  says  she  is  going  to  train  him  to  come  in 
when  he  hears  the  gong.  We  use  the  alarm  clock 
at  present  for  a  gong.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do  when  the  cow  goes  away.  She  wakes  me  every 
morning  punctually  at  half-past  four,  but  I'm  in 
a  blue  funk  that  one  of  these  days  she  will  over- 
sleep herself.  It  is  one  of  those  clocks  you  read 
about.  You  wrote  something  very  funny  about 
one  once  yourself,  but  I  always  thought  you  had 
invented  it.  I  bought  it  because  they  said  it  was 
an  extra  loud  one,  and  so  it  is.  The  thing  that's 
wrong  about  it  is  that,  do  what  you  will,  you  can't 
get  it  to  go  off  before  six  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
I  set  it  on  Sunday  evening  for  half-past  four — we 
farmers  do  have  to  work,  I  can  tell  you.  But  it's 
worth  it.  I  had  no  idea  that  the  world  was  so 
beautiful.  There  is  a  light  you  never  see  at  any 
other  time,  and  the  whole  air  seems  to  be  full  of 
fluttering  song.  You  feel — but  you  must  get  up 
and  come  out  with  me,  Dad.  I  can't  describe  it. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  good  old  cow,  Lord 
knows  what  time  I'd  have  been  up.  The  clock 
went  off  at  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon,  just 
as  they  were  sitting  down  to  tea,  and  frightened 
them   all   out   of  their   skins.      We  have   fiddled 


THEY  AND  I  225 

about  with  it  all  we  know,  but  there's  no  getting 
it  to  do  anything  between  six  p.  m.  and  six  a.  m. 
Anything  you  want  of  it  in  the  daytime  it  is  quite 
agreeable  to.  But  it  seems  to  have  fixed  its  own 
working  hours,  and  isn't  going  to  be  bustled  out 
of  its  proper  rest.  I  got  so  mad  with  it  myself 
I  wanted  to  pitch  it  out  of  the  window,  but  Robin 
thought  we  ought  to  keep  it  until  you  came,  that 
perhaps  you  might  be  able  to  do  something  with  it 
— writing  something  about  it,  she  means.  I  said 
I  thought  alarm  clocks  were  pretty  well  played  out 
by  this  time;  but,  as  she  says,  there  is  always  a 
new  generation  coming  along  to  whom  almost 
everything  must  be  fresh.  Anyhow,  the  con- 
founded thing  cost  seven  and  six,  and  seems  to  be 
no  good  for  anything  else. 

"Whatever  was  it  that  you  really  did  say  to 
Robin  about  her  room?  Young  Bute  came 
round  to  me  on  Monday  quite  upset  about  it.  He 
says  it  is  going  to  be  all  windows,  and  will  look, 
when  finished,  like  an  incorrect  copy  of  the  Eddy- 
stone  lighthouse.  He  says  there  will  be  no  place 
for  the  bed,  and  if  there  is  to  be  a  fireplace  at 
all  it  will  have  to  be  in  the  cupboard,  and  that  the 
only  way,  so  far  as  he  can  see,  of  her  getting  in 


226  THEY  AND  I 

and  out  of  it  will  be  by  a  door  through  the  bath- 
room. She  said  that  you  said  she  could  have  it 
entirely  to  her  own  idea,  and  that  he  was  just  to 
carry  out  her  instructions;  but,  as  he  points  out, 
you  can't  have  a  room  in  a  house  as  if  the  rest  of 
the  house  wasn't  there;  even  if  it  is  your  own 
room.  Nobody,  it  seems,  will  be  able  to  have  a 
bath  without  first  talking  it  over  with  her,  and  ar- 
ranging a  time  mutually  convenient.  I  told  him  I 
was  sure  you  never  meant  him  to  do  anything  ab- 
surd ;  and  that  his  best  plan  would  be  to  go  straight 
back  to  her,  explain  to  her  that  she'd  been  talking 
like  a  silly  goat — he  could  have  put  it  politely,  of 
course — and  that  he  wasn't  going  to  pay  any  at- 
tention to  her.  You  might  have  thought  I  had 
suggested  his  walking  into  a  den  of  lions  and  pull- 
ing all  their  tails.  I  don't  know  what  Robin  has 
done  to  him,  but  he  seems  frightened  of  her.  I 
had  to  promise  that  I  would  talk  to  her.  He'd 
better  have  done  it  himself.  I  only  told  her  just 
what  he  said,  and  off  she  went  in  one  of  her 
tantrums.  You  know  her  style:  If  she  liked  to 
live  in  a  room  where  she  could  see  to  do  her  hair 
that  was  no  business  of  his,  and  if  he  couldn't 
design  a  plain,  simple  bedroom  that  wasn't  going 


THEY  AND  I  227 

to  look  ridiculous  and  make  her  the  laughing-stock 
of  all  the  neighbourhood  then  the  Royal  Institute 
of  British  Architects  must  have  strange  notions 
of  the  sort  of  person  entitled  to  go  about  the 
country  building  houses;  that  if  he  thought  the 
proper  place  for  a  fire  was  in  a  cupboard,  she 
didn't ;  that  his  duty  was  to  carry  out  the  instruc- 
tions of  his  employers,  and  if  he  imagined  for  a 
moment  she  was  going  to  consent  to  remain  shut 
up  in  her  room  till  everybody  in  the  house  had 
finished  bathing  it  would  be  better  for  us  to  se- 
cure the  services  of  somebody  possessed  of  a  little 
common-sense;  that  next  time  she  met  him  she 
would  certainly  tell  him  what  she  thought  of  him, 
also  that  she  should  certainly  decline  to  hold  any 
further  communication  with  him  again;  that  she 
doesn't  want  a  bedroom  now  of  any  sort — per- 
haps she  may  be  permitted  a  shakedown  in  the 
pantry,  or  perhaps  Veronica  will  allow  her  an  oc- 
casional night's  rest  with  her,  and  if  not  it  doesn't 
matter.  You'll  have  to  talk  to  her  yourself.  I'm 
not  going  to  say  any  more. 

11  Don't  forget  that  Friday  is  the  St.  Leonard's 
1  At  Home  '  day.  I've  promised  Janie  that  you 
shall  be  there  in  all  your  best  clothes.      (Don't 


228  THEY  AND  I 

tell  her  I'm  calling  her  Janie.  It  might  offend 
her.  But  nobody  calls  her  Miss  St.  Leonard.) 
Everybody  is  coming,  and  all  the  children  are  hav- 
ing their  hair  washed.  You  will  have  it  all  your 
own  way  down  here.  There's  no  other  celebrity 
till  you  get  to  Boss  Croker,  the  Tammany  man, 
the  other  side  of  Ilsley  Downs.  Artists  they  don't 
count.  The  rumour  was  all  round  the  place  last 
week  that  you  were  here  incognito  in  the  person  of 
a  dismal-looking  Johnny,  staying  at  the  '  Fisher- 
man's Retreat,'  who  used  to  sit  all  day  in  a  punt  up 
the  backwater  drinking  whiskey.  It  made  me 
rather  mad  when  I  saw  him.  I  suppose  it  was  the 
whiskey  that  suggested  the  idea  to  them.  They 
have  got  the  notion  in  these  parts  that  a  literary 
man  is  a  sort  of  inspired  tramp.  A  Mrs.  Jagger- 
swade — or  some  such  name — whom  I  met  here  on 
Sunday  and  who  is  coming  on  Friday,  took  me 
aside  and  asked  me  '  what  sort  of  things  '  you  said 
when  you  talked?  She  said  she  felt  sure  it  would 
be  so  clever,  and,  herself,  she  was  looking  forward 
to  it;  but  would  I — 'quite  between  oruselves' — 
advise  her  to  bring  the  children. 

"  I  say,  you  will  have  to  talk  seriously  to  Ve- 
ronica.    Country  life  seems  to  agree  with  her. 


THEY  AND  I  229 

She's    taken   to   poaching    already — she   and   the 
twins.     It  was  the  one  sin  that  hitherto  they  had 
never  committed,  and  I  fancy  the  old  man  was 
feeling  proud  of  this.  Luckily  I  caught  them  com- 
ing home — with  ten  dead  rabbits  strung  on  a  pole, 
the  twins  carrying  it  between  them  on  their  shoul- 
ders, suggesting  the  picture  of  the  spies  returning 
from  the  promised  land  with  that  bunch  of  grapes 
— Veronica    scouting    on   ahead   with,    every   ten 
yards,  her  ear  to  the  ground,  listening  for  hostile 
footsteps.     The  thing  that  troubled  her  most  was 
that  she  hadn't  heard  me  coming;  she  seemed  to 
fear  that   something  had   gone   wrong  with   the 
laws  of  Nature.     They  had  found  the  whole  col- 
lection hanging  from  a  tree,  and  had  persuaded 
themselves  that   Providence  must  have  been  ex- 
pecting them.    I  insisted  on  their  going  back  with 
me  and  showing  me  the  tree,  much  to  their  disgust. 
And   fortunately   the  keeper  wasn't   about — they 
are  men  that  love  making  a  row.     I  talked  some 
fine  moral  sentiment  to  her.     But  she  says  you 
have  told  her  that  it  doesn't  matter  whether  you 
are  good  or  bad,  things  happen  to  you  just  the 
same;  and  this  being  so  she  feels  she  may  as  well 
enjoy  herself.    I  asked  her  why  she  never  seemed 


23o  THEY  AND  I 

to  enjoy  herself  being  good — I  believe  if  I'd  al- 
ways had  a  kid  to  bring  up  I'd  have  been  a  model 
chap  myself  by  this  time.  Her  answer  was  that 
she  supposed  she  was  born  bad.  I  pointed  out  to 
her  that  was  a  reflection  on  you  and  Little  Mother; 
and  she  answered  she  guessed  she  must  be  a 
1  throw-back.'  Old  Slee's  got  a  dog  that  ought  to 
have  been  a  fox-terrier,  but  isn't,  and  he  seems  to 
have  been  explaining  things  to  her. 

"  A  thing  that  will  trouble  you  down  here,  Dad, 
is  the  cruelty  of  the  country.  They  catch  these 
poor  little  wretches  in  traps,  leaving  them  some- 
times for  days  suffering  what  must  be  to  them 
nothing  short  of  agony — to  say  nothing  of  the 
terror  and  the  hunger.  I  tried  putting  my  finger 
in  one  of  the  beastly  things  and  keeping  it  there 
for  just  two  minutes  by  my  watch.  It  seemed 
like  twenty.  The  pain  grows  more  intense  with 
every  second,  and  I'm  not  a  soft,  as  you  know. 
I've  lain  half  an  hour  with  a  broken  leg,  and  that 
wasn't  as  bad.  One  hears  the  little  creatures 
screaming,  but  cannot  find  them.  Of  course  when 
one  draws  near  they  keep  silent.  It  makes  one 
quite  dislike  country  people.  They  are  so  callous. 
When  you  speak  to  them  about  it  they  only  grin. 


THEY  AND  I  231 

Janie  goes  nearly  mad  about  it.  Mr.  St.  Leonard 
tried  to  get  the  clergyman  to  say  something  on 
the  subject,  but  he  answered  that  he  thought  it 
better  '  for  the  Church  to  confine  herself  to  the 
accomplishment  of  her  own  great  mission.'     Ass. 

"  Bring  Little  Mother  down ;  we  want  to  show 
her  oft  on  Friday.  And  make  her  put  on  some- 
thing pretty.  Ask  her  if  she's  got  that  lilac  thing 
with  lace  she  wore  at  Cambridge  for  the  May 
Week  the  year  before  last.  Tell  her  not  to  be 
silly;  it  wasn't  a  bit  too  young.  Nash  said  she 
looked  like  something  out  of  an  old  picture,  and 
he's  going  to  be  an  artist.  Don't  let  her  dress 
herself.  She  doesn't  understand  it.  And  will  you 
get  me  a  gun " 

The  remainder  of  the  letter  was  taken  up  with 
instructions  concerning  the  gun.  It  seemed  a  com- 
plicated sort  of  gun.  I  wished  I  hadn't  read 
about  the  gun  to  Ethelbertha.  It  made  her  nerv- 
ous for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Veronica's  letter  followed  on  Thursday  morn- 
ing. I  read  it  going  down  in  the  train.  In  trans- 
scribing  I  have  thought  it  better,  as  regards  the 
spelling,  to  adopt  the  more  conventional  forms. 


232  THEY  AND  I 

"  You  will  be  pleased  to  hear,"  Veronica  wrote, 
"  that  we  are  all  quite  well.  Robin  works  very 
hard.  But  I  think  it  does  her  good.  And  of 
course  I  help  her.  All  I  can.  I  am  glad  she  has 
got  a  boy.  To  do  the  washing-up.  I  think  that 
was  too  much  for  her.  It  used  to  make  her  cross. 
One  cannot  blame  her.  It  is  trying  work.  And 
it  makes  you  mucky.  He  is  a  good  boy.  But  has 
been  neglected.  So  doesn't  know  much.  I  am 
teaching  him  grammar.  He  says  '  you  was '  and 
'  her  be.'  But  is  getting  better.  He  says  he 
went  to  school.  But  they  couldn't  have  taken 
any  trouble  with  him.  Could  they?  The  system, 
I  suppose,  was  rotten.  Robina  says  I  mustn't  over- 
do it.  Because  you  want  him  to  talk  Berkshire. 
So  I  propose  confining  our  attention  to  the  ele- 
mentary rules.  He  had  never  heard  of  Robinson 
Crusoe.  What  a  life!  We  went  to  church  on 
Sunday.  I  could  not  find  my  gloves.  And  Ro- 
bina was  waxey.  But  Mr.  St.  Leonard  came  with- 
out his  trousers.  Which  was  worse.  We  found 
them  in  the  evening.  The  little  boy  that  blew  up 
our  stove  was  there  with  his  mother.  But  I  didn't 
speak  to  her.  He's  got  a  doom.  That's  what 
made  him  blow  it  up.     He  couldn't  help  it.     So 


THEY  AND  I  233 

you  see  it  wasn't  my  fault.  After  all.  His  grand- 
father was  blown  up.  And  he's  going  to  be  blown 
up  again.  Later  on.  But  he  is  very  brave.  And 
is  going  to  make  a  will.  I  like  all  the  St.  Leonards 
very  much.  We  went  there  to  tea  on  Sunday. 
And  Mr.  St.  Leonard  said  I  was  bright.  I  think 
Miss  Janie  very  beautiful.  And  so  does  Dick. 
She  makes  me  think  of  angels.  So  she  does  Dick. 
And  he  says  she  is  so  kind  to  her  little  brothers 
and  sisters.  It  is  a  good  sign.  I  think  she  ought 
to  marry  Dick.  It  would  steady  him.  He  works 
very  hard.  But  I  think  it  does  him  good.  We 
have  breakfast  at  seven.  And  I  lay  the  table. 
It  is  very  beautiful  in  the  morning.  When  you 
are  once  up.  Mrs.  St.  Leonard  has  twins.  They 
are  a  great  anxiety  to  her.  But  she  would  not  part 
from  them.  She  has  had  much  trouble.  And  is 
sometimes  very  sad.  I  like  the  girl  best.  Her 
name  is  Winnie.  She  is  more  like  a  boy.  His 
name  is  Wilfrid.  But  sometimes  they  change 
clothes.  Then  you're  done.  They  are  only  nearly 
seven.  But  they  know  a  lot.  They  are  going  to 
teach  me  swimming.  Is  it  not  kind  of  them? 
The  two  older  boys  are  at  home  for  their  holi- 
days.   But  they  give  themselves  a  lot  of  airs.  And 


234  THEY  AND  I 

they  called  me  a  flapper.  I  told  him  he'd  be  sorry. 
When  he  was  a  man.  Because  perhaps  I'd  grow 
up  beautiful.  And  then  he'd  fall  in  love  with  me. 
But  he  said  he  wouldn't.  So  I  let  him  see  what  I 
thought  of  him.  The  little  girl  is  very  nice.  She 
is  about  my  own  age.  Her  name  is  Sally.  We 
are  going  to  write  a  play.  But  we  shan't  let  Bertie 
act  in  it.  Unless  he  turns  over  a  new  leaf.  I'm 
going  to  be  a  princess  that  doesn't  know  it.  But 
only  feels  it.  And  she's  going  to  be  a  wicked  witch. 
What  wants  me  to  marry  her  son.  What's  a 
sight.  But  I  won't,  because  I'd  rather  die  first. 
And  am  in  love  with  a  swineherd.  That  is  a 
genius.  Only  nobody  suspects  it.  I  wear  a  crown 
in  the  last  act.  And  everybody  rejoices.  Except 
her.  I  think  it  will  be  good.  We  have  nearly 
finished  the  first  act.  She  writes  very  well.  And 
has  a  sense  of  atmosphere.  And  I  tell  her  what 
to  say.  Miss  Janie  is  going  to  make  me  a  dress 
with  a  train.  And  gold  spangles.  And  Robina 
is  going  to  lend  me  her  blue  necklace.  Anything 
will  do  of  course  for  the  old  witch.  So  it  won't 
be  much  trouble  to  any  one.  Mr.  Bute  is  going 
to  paint  us  some  scenery.  And  we  are  going  to 
invite  everybody.     He  is  very  nice.     Robina  says 


THEY  AND  I  235 

he  thinks  too  much  of  himself.  By  a  long  chalk. 
But  she  is  very  critical  where  men  are  concerned. 
She  admits  it.  She  says  she  can't  help  it.  I  find 
him  very  affable.  And  so  does  Dick.  We  think 
Robina  will  get  over  it.  And  he  has  promised 
not  to  be  angry  with  her.  Because  I  have  told 
him  that  she  does  not  mean  it.  It  is  only  her  way. 
She  says  she  feels  it  is  unjust  of  her.  Because 
really  he  is  rather  charming.  I  told  him  that. 
And  he  said  I  was  a  dear  little  girl.  He  is  going 
to  get  me  a  real  crown.  Robina  says  he  has  nice 
eyes.  I  told  him  that.  And  he  laughed.  There 
is  a  gentleman  comes  here  that  I  think  is  in  love 
with  Robina.  But  I  shouldn't  say  anything  to  her 
about  it.  If  I  was  you.  She  is  very  snappy  about 
it.  He  is  not  handsome.  But  he  looks  good.  He 
writes  for  the  papers.  But  I  don't  think  he  is 
rich.  And  Robina  is  very  nice  to  him.  Until  he's 
gone.  Then  she  gets  mad.  It  all  began  with  the 
explosion.  So  perhaps  it  was  fate.  He  is  going 
to  keep  it  out  of  the  papers.  As  much  as  he  can. 
But  of  course  he  owes  a  duty  to  the  public.  I  am 
going  to  decline  to  see  him.  I  think  it  better.  Mr. 
Slee  says  everything  will  be  in  apple-pie  order  to- 
morrow.    So  you  can  come  down.     And  we  are 


236  THEY  AND  I 

going  to  have  Irish  stew.  And  roley-poley  pud- 
ding. It  will  be  a  change.  He  is  very  nice.  And 
says  he  was  always  in  trouble  himself  when  he 
was  a  little  boy.  It's  all  experience.  We  are  all 
going  on  Friday  to  a  party  at  Mr.  St.  Leonard's. 
And  you  have  got  to  come  too.  Robina  says  I 
can  wear  my  new  frock.  But  we  can't  find  the 
sash.  It  is  very  strange.  Because  I  remember 
having  seen  it.  You  didn't  take  it  for  anything, 
did  you?  We  shall  have  to  get  a  new  one,  I  sup- 
pose. It  is  very  annoying.  My  new  shoes  have 
also  not  worn  well.  And  they  ought  to  have.  Be- 
cause Robina  says  they  were  expensive.  The  don- 
key has  come.  And  he  is  sweet.  He  eats  out  of 
my  hand.  And  lets  me  kiss  him.  But  he  won't 
go.  He  goes  a  little  when  you  shout  at  him. 
Very  loud.  Me  and  Robina  went  for  a  drive  yes- 
terday after  tea.  And  Dick  ran  beside.  And 
shouted.  But  he  got  hoarse.  And  then  he 
wouldn't  go  no  more.  And  Robina  did  not  like  it. 
Because  Dick  shouted  swear  words.  He  says  they 
come  naturally  to  you  when  you  shout.  And  Ro- 
bina said  it  was  horrible.  And  that  people  would 
hear  him.  So  we  got  out.  And  pushed  him  home. 
But  he  is  very  strong.    And  we  were  all  very  tired. 


THEY  AND  I  237 

And  Robina  says  she  hates  him.  Dick  is  going  to 
give  Mr.  'Opkins  half  a  crown.  To  tell  him  how 
he  makes  him  go.  Because  Mr.  'Opkins  makes 
him  gallop.  Robina  says  it  must  be  hypnotism. 
But  Dick  thinks  it  might  be  something  simpler.  I 
think  Mr.  'Opkins  very  nice.  He  says  you  prom- 
ised to  lend  him  a  book.  What  would  help  him  to 
talk  like  a  real  country  boy.  So  I  have  let  him  a 
book  about  a  window.  By  Mr.  Barrie.  What 
came  to  see  us  last  year.  It  has  a  lot  of  funny 
words  in  it.  And  he  is  going  to  learn  them  up. 
But  he  don't  know  what  they  mean.  No  more  do 
I.  I  have  written  a  lot  of  the  book.  It  promises 
to  be  very  interesting.  It  is  all  a  dream.  He  is 
just  the  ordinary  grown-up  father.  Neither  better 
nor  worse.  And  he  goes  up  and  up.  It  is  a  pleas- 
ant sensation.  Till  he  reaches  the  moon.  And 
there  everything  is  different.  It  is  the  children 
that  know  everything.  And  are  always  right. 
And  the  grown-ups  have  to  do  all  what  they  tell 
them.  They  are  kind  but  firm.  It  is  very  good 
for  him.  And  when  he  wakes  up  he  is  a  better 
man.  I  put  down  everything  that  occurs  to  me. 
Like  you  suggested.  There  is  quite  a  lot  of  it. 
And  it  makes  you  see  how  unjustly  children  are 


238  THEY  AND  I 

treated.  They  said  I  was  to  feed  the  donkey. 
Because  it  was  my  donkey.  And  I  fed  him.  And 
there  wasn't  enough  supper  for  Dick.  And  Dick 
said  I  was  an  idiot.  And  Robina  said  I  wasn't 
to  feed  him.  And  in  the  morning  there  wasn't 
anything  to  feed  him  on.  Because  he  won't  eat 
anything  but  bread-and-butter.  And  the  baker 
hadn't  come.  And  he  wasn't  there.  Because  the 
man  that  comes  to  milk  the  cow  had  left  the  door 
open.  And  I  was  distracted.  And  Dick  asked 
had  I  fed  him.  And  of  course  I  hadn't  fed  him. 
And  lord  how  Dick  talked.  Never  waited  to 
hear  anything,  mind  you.  I  let  him  talk.  But  it 
just  shows  you.  We  are  all  very  happy.  But  shall 
be  pleased  to  see  you.  Once  again.  The  pepper- 
mint creams  down  here  are  not  good.  And  are 
very  dear.  Compared  with  London  prices.  Isn't 
this  a  good  letter?  You  said  I  was  to  always  write 
just  as  I  thought.  So  I'm  doing  it.  I  think  that's 
all." 

I  read  selections  from  this  letter  aloud  to  Ethel- 
bertha.  She  said  she  was  glad  she  had  decided  to 
come  down  with  me. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Had  all  things  gone  as  ordered,  our  arrival  at 
the  St.  Leonards  on  Friday  afternoon  would  have 
been  imposing.  It  was  our  entrance,  so  to  speak, 
upon  the  local  stage;  and  Robina  had  decided  it 
was  a  case  where  small  economies  ought  not  to  be 
considered.  The  livery  stable  proprietor  had  sug- 
gested a  brougham,  but  that  would  have  neces- 
sitated one  of  us  riding  outside.  I  explained  to 
Robina  that,  in  the  country,  this  was  usual;  and 
Robina  had  replied  that  much  depended  upon  first 
impressions.  Dick  would,  in  all  probability,  claim 
the  place  for  himself,  and,  the  moment  we  were 
started,  stick  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  She  selected 
an  open  landau  of  quite  an  extraordinary  size, 
painted  yellow.  It  looked  to  me  an  object  more 
appropriate  to  a  Lord  Mayor's  show  than  to  the 
requirements  of  a  Christian  family;  but  Robina 
seemed  touchy  on  the  subject,  and  I  said  no  more. 
It  certainly  was  roomy.  Old  Glossop  had  turned 
it  out  well,  with  a  pair  of  greys — seventeen  hands, 
I    judged   them.      The    only    thing   that   seemed 

239 


24o  THEY  AND  I 

wrong  was  the  coachman.  I  can't  explain  why, 
but  he  struck  me  as  the  class  of  youth  one  associ- 
ates with  a  milk-cart. 

We  set  out  at  a  gentle  trot.  Veronica,  who  had 
been  in  trouble  most  of  the  morning,  sat  stiffly  on 
the  extreme  edge  of  her  seat,  clothed  in  the  atti- 
tude of  one  dead  to  the  world;  Dick,  in  lavender 
gloves  that  Robina  had  thoughfully  bought  for 
him,  next  to  her.  Ethelbertha,  Robina,  and  my- 
self sat  perched  on  the  back  seat;  to  have  leaned 
back  would  have  been  to  lie  down.  Ethelbertha, 
having  made  up  her  mind  she  was  going  to  dislike 
the  whole  family  of  the  St.  Leonards,  seemed  dis- 
inclined for  conversation.  Myself  I  had  forgotten 
my  cigar-case.  I  have  tried  the  St.  Leonard  cigar. 
He  does  not  smoke  himself,  but  keeps  a  box  for 
his  friends.  He  tells  me  he  fancies  men  are  smok- 
ing cigars  less  than  formerly.  I  did  not  see  how 
I  was  going  to  get  a  smoke  for  the  next  three 
hours.  Nothing  annoys  me  more  than  being  bus- 
tled and  made  to  forget  things.  Robina,  who  has 
recently  changed  her  views  on  the  subject  of 
freckles,  shared  a  parasol  with  her  mother.  They 
had  to  hold  it  almost  horizontally  in  front  of  them, 
and  this  obscured  their  view.     I  could  not  myself 


THEY  AND  I  241 

understand  why   people   smiled   as  we   went   by. 
Apart  from  the  carriage,  which  they  must  have 
seen  before,  we  were  not,  I  should  have  said,  an 
exhilarating  spectacle.   A  party  of  cyclists  laughed 
outright.      Robina  said  there  was  one  thing  we 
should  have  to  be  careful   about,   living  in  the 
country,  and  that  was  that  the  strong  air  and  the 
loneliness  combined  didn't  sap  our  intellect.     She 
said  she  had  noticed  it — the  tendency  of  country 
people  to  become  prematurely  silly.      I   did  not 
share  her  fears,  as  I  had  by  this  time  divined  what 
it  was  that  was  amusing  folks.     Dick  had  discov- 
ered behind  the  cushions — remnant  of  some  recent 
wedding,    one    supposes — a   large    and   tastefully 
bound  Book  of  Common  Prayer.     He  and  Ver- 
onica sat  holding  it  between  them.     Looking  at 
their  faces  one  could  almost  hear  the  organ  peal- 
ing. 

Dick  kept  one  eye  on  the  parasol;  and  when,  on 
passing  into  shade  it  was  lowered,  he  and  Veronica 
were  watching  with  rapt  ecstasy  the  flight  of  swal- 
lows. Robina  said  she  should  tell  Mr.  Glossop 
of  the  insults  to  which  respectable  people  were  sub- 
ject when  riding  in  his  carriage.  She  thought  he 
ought  to  take  steps  to  prevent  it.     She  likewise 


242  THEY  AND  I 

suggested  that  the  four  of  us,  leaving  the  Little 
Mother  in  the  carnage,  should  walk  up  the  hill. 
Ethelbertha  said  that  she  herself  would  like  a 
walk.  She  had  been  balancing  herself  on  the  edge 
of  a  cushion  with  her  feet  dangling  for  two  miles, 
and  was  tired.  She  herself  would  have  preferred 
a  carriage  made  for  ordinary-sized  people.  Our 
coachman  called  attention  to  the  heat  of  the  after- 
noon and  the  length  of  the  hill,  and  recommended 
our  remaining  where  we  were;  but  his  advice  was 
dismissed  as  exhibiting  want  of  feeling.  Robina 
is,  perhaps,  a  trifle  oversympathetic  where  animals 
are  concerned.  I  remember,  when  they  were  chil- 
dren, her  banging  Dick  over  the  head  with  the 
nursery  bellows  because  he  would  not  agree  to  talk 
in  a  whisper  for  fear  of  waking  the  cat.  You  can, 
of  course,  overdo  kindness  to  animals,  but  it  is  a 
fault  on  the  right  side;  and,  as  a  rule,  I  do  not 
discourage  her.  Veronica  was  allowed  to  remain, 
owing  to  her  bad  knee.  It  is  a  most  unfortunate 
affliction.  It  comes  on  quite  suddenly.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  seen ;  but  the  child's  face  while  she  is 
suffering  from  it  would  move  a  heart  of  stone.  It 
had  been  troubling  her,  so  it  appeared,  all  the 
morning;  but  she  had  said  nothing,  not  wishing  to 


THEY  AND  I  243 

alarm  her  mother.  Ethelbertha,  who  thinks  it 
may  be  hereditary — she  herself  having  an  aunt 
who  had  suffered  from  contracted  ligament — fixed 
her  up  as  comfortably  as  the  pain  would  permit 
with  cushions  in  the  centre  of  the  back  seat;  and 
the  rest  of  us  toiled  after  the  carriage. 

I  should  not  like  to  say  for  certain  that  horses 
have  a  sense  of  humour,  but  I  sometimes  think 
they  must.  I  had  a  horse  years  ago  who  used  to 
take  delight  in  teasing  girls.  I  can  describe  it  no 
other  way.  He  would  pick  out  a  girl  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  off;  always  some  haughty,  well-dressed  girl 
who  was  feeling  pleased  with  herself.  As  we  ap- 
proached he  would  eye  her  with  horror  and  aston- 
ishment. It  was  too  marked  to  escape  notice.  A 
hundred  yards  off  he  would  be  walking  sideways, 
backing  away  from  her;  I  would  see  the  poor 
lady  growing  scarlet  with  the  insult  and  annoy- 
ance of  it.  Opposite  to  her,  he  would  shy  the  en- 
tire width  of  the  road,  and  make  pretence  to  bolt. 
Looking  back  I  would  see  her  vainly  appealing  to 
surrounding  nature  for  a  looking-glass  to  see  what 
it  was  that  had  gone  wrong  with  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  me,"  she  would  be 
crying  to  herself,  "  that  the  very  beasts  of  the  field 


244  THEY  AND  I 

should  shun  me?  Do  they  take  me  for  a  golly- 
wog?  " 

Halfway  up  the  hill,  the  off-side  grey  turned  his 
head  and  looked  at  us.  We  were  about  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  behind;  it  was  a  hot  and  dusty 
day.  He  whispered  to  the  near-side  grey,  and  the 
near-side  grey  turned  and  looked  at  us  also.  I 
knew  what  was  coming.  I've  been  played  the  same 
trick  before.  I  shouted  to  the  boy,  but  it  was  too 
late.  They  took  the  rest  of  the  hill  at  a  gallop 
and  disappeared  over  the  brow.  Had  there  been 
an  experienced  coachman  behind  them,  I  should 
not  have  worried.  Dick  told  his  mother  not  to  be 
alarmed,  and  started  off  at  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  I 
calculated  I  was  doing  about  ten,  which  for  a  gen- 
tleman past  his  first  youth,  in  a  frock  suit  designed 
to  disguise  rather  than  give  play  to  the  figure,  I 
consider  creditable.  Robina,  undecided  whether 
to  go  on  ahead  with  Dick  or  remain  to  assist  her 
mother,  wasted  vigour  by  running  from  one  to  the 
other.  Ethelbertha's  one  hope  was  that  she  might 
reach  the  wreckage  in  time  to  receive  Veronica's 
last  wishes. 

It  was  in  this  order  that  we  arrived  at  the  St. 
Leonards'.     Veronica,  under  an  awning,  sipping 


THEY  AND  I  245 

iced  sherbet,  appeared  to  be  the  centre  of  the 
party.  She  was  recounting  her  experiences  with  a 
modesty  that  had  already  won  all  hearts.  The  rest 
of  us,  she  had  explained,  had  preferred  walking, 
and  would  arrive  later.  She  was  evidently  pleased 
to  see  me,  and  volunteered  the  information  that 
the  greys,  to  all  seeming,  had  enjoyed  their  gallop. 

I  sent  Dick  back  to  break  the  good  news  to  his 
mother.  Young  Bute  said  he  would  go  too.  He 
said  he  was  fresher  than  Dick,  and  would  get  there 
first.  As  a  matter  of  history  he  did,  and  was  im- 
mediately sorry  that  he  had. 

This  is  not  a  well-ordered  world,  or  it  would 
not  be  our  good  deeds  that  would  so  often  get  us 
into  trouble.  Robina's  insistence  on  our  walking 
up  the  hill  had  been  prompted  by  tender  feeling 
for  dumb  animals:  a  virtuous  emotion  that  surely 
the  angels  should  have  blessed.  The  result  had 
been  to  bring  down  upon  her  suffering  and  re- 
proach. It  is  not  often  that  Ethelbertha  loses  her 
temper.  When  she  does  she  makes  use  of  the  oc- 
casion to  perform  what  one  might  describe  as  a 
mental  spring-cleaning.  All  loose  odds  and  ends 
of  temper  that  may  be  lying  about  in  her  mind — 
any  scrap  of  indignation  that  has  been  reposing 


246  THEY  AND  I 

peacefully,  half  forgotten,  in  a  corner  of  her  brain, 
she  ferrets  out  and  brushes  into  the  general  heap. 
Small  annoyances  of  the  year  before  last — little 
things  she  hadn't  noticed  at  the  time — incidents  in 
your  past  life  that,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned, 
present  themselves  as  dim  visions  connected  maybe 
with  some  previous  existence,  she  whisks  triumph- 
antly into  her  pan.  The  method  has  its  advan- 
tages. It  leaves  her,  swept  and  garnished,  with- 
out a  scrap  of  ill-feeling  towards  any  living  soul. 
For  quite  a  long  period  after  one  of  these  explo- 
sions it  is  impossible  to  get  a  cross  word  out  of  her. 
One  has  to  wait  sometimes  for  months.  But  while 
the  clearing  up  is  in  progress  the  atmosphere  round 
about  is  disturbing.  The  element  of  the  whole 
thing  is  its  comprehensive  swiftness.  Before  they 
had  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill,  Robina  had 
acquired  a  tolerably  complete  idea  of  all  she  had 
done  wrong  since  Christmas  twelvemonth:  the 
present  afternoon's  proceedings — including  as  they 
did  the  almost  certain  sacrificing  of  a  sister  to  a 
violent  death,  together  with  the  probable  destruc- 
tion of  a  father,  no  longer  of  an  age  to  trifle  with 
apoplexy — being  but  a  fit  and  proper  complement 
to  what  had  gone  before.     It  would  be  long,  as 


THEY  AND  I  247 

Robina  herself  that  evening  bitterly  declared,  be- 
fore she  would  again  give  ear  to  the  promptings 
of  her  better  nature. 

To  take  next  the  sad  case  of  Archibald  Bute: 
his  sole  desire  had  been  to  relieve,  at  the  earliest 
moment  possible,  the  anxieties  of  a  sister  and  a 
mother.  Robina's  new  hat,  not  intended  for  sport, 
had  broken  away  from  its  fastenings.  With  it,  it 
had  brought  down  her  hair.  There  is  a  harmless 
contrivance  for  building  up  the  female  hair  called, 
I  am  told,  a  pad.  It  can  be  made  of  combings, 
and  then,  of  course,  is  literally  the  girl's  own  hair. 
He  came  upon  Robina  at  the  moment  when,  re- 
tracing her  steps  and  with  her  back  towards  him, 
she  was  looking  for  it.  With  his  usual  luck,  he 
was  the  first  to  find  it.  Ethelbertha  thanked  him 
for  his  information  concerning  Veronica,  but 
seemed  chiefly  anxious  to  push  on  and  convince 
herself  that  it  was  true.  She  took  Dick's  arm, 
and  left  Robina  to  follow  on  with  Bute. 

As  I  explained  to  him  afterwards,  had  he 
stopped  to  ask  my  advice  I  should  have  counselled 
his  leaving  the  job  to  Dick,  who,  after  all,  was 
only  thirty  seconds  behind  him.  As  regarded  him- 
self, I  should  have  suggested  his  taking  a  walk  in 


248  THEY  AND  I 

the  opposite  direction,  returning,  say,  In  half  an 
hour,  and  pretending  to  have  just  arrived.  By 
that  time  Robina,  with  the  assistance  of  Janie's 
brush  and  comb,  and  possibly  her  powder-puff, 
would  have  been  feeling  herself  again.  He  would 
have  listened  sympathetically  to  an  account  of  the 
affair  from  Robina  herself — her  version,  in  which 
she  would  have  appeared  to  advantage.  Give  her 
time,  and  she  has  a  sense  of  humour.  She  would 
have  made  it  bright  and  whimsical.  Without  as- 
serting it  in  so  many  words,  she  would  have  con- 
veyed the  impression — I  know  her  way — that  she 
alone,  throughout  the  whole  commotion,  had  re- 
mained calm  and  helpful.  "  Dear  old  Dick  "  and 
"  Poor  dear  papa  " — I  can  hear  her  saying  it — 
would  have  supplied  the  low  comedy,  and  Ve- 
ronica, alluded  to  with  affection  free  from  senti- 
mentality, would  have  furnished  the  dramatic  in- 
terest. It  is  not  that  Robina  intends  to  mislead, 
but  she  has  the  artistic  instinct.  It  would  have 
made  quite  a  charming  story;  Robina  always  the 
central  figure.  She  would  have  enjoyed  telling  it, 
and  would  have  been  pleased  with  the  person  lis- 
tening. All  this — which  would  have  been  the  re- 
ward of  subterfuge — he  had  missed.     Virtuous 


THEY  AND  I  249 

intention  had  gained  for  him  nothing  but  a  few 
scattered  observations  from  Robina  concerning 
himself,  the  probable  object  of  his  Creator  in 
fashioning  him — his  relation  to  the  scheme  of 
things  in  general:  observations  all  of  which  he  had 
felt  to  be  unjust. 

We  compared  experiences  over  a  pipe  that  same 
evening;  and  he  told  me  of  a  friend  of  his,  a  law 
student,  who  had  shared  diggings  with  him  in 
Edinburgh.  A  kinder-hearted  young  man,  Bute 
felt  sure,  could  never  have  breathed;  nor  one  with 
a  tenderer,  more  chivalrous  regard  for  women; 
and  the  misery  this  brought  him,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  irritation  caused  to  quite  a  number  of  respect- 
able people,  could  hardly  be  imagined,  so  young 
Bute  assured  me,  by  any  one  not  personally  ac- 
quainted with  the  parties.  It  was  the  plain  and 
snappy  girl,  and  the  less  attractive  type  of  old 
maid,  for  whom  he  felt  the  most  sorrow.  He 
could  not  help  thinking  of  all  they  had  missed,  and 
were  likely  to  go  on  missing;  the  rapture — surely 
the  woman's  birthright — of  feeling  herself  adored, 
anyhow  once  in  her  life;  the  delight  of  seeing  the 
lover's  eye  light  up  at  her  coming.  Had  he  been 
a  Mormon  he  would  have  married  them  all.    They 


25o  THEY  AND  I 

too — the  neglected  that  none  had  invited  to  the 
feast  of  love — they  also  should  know  the  joys  of 
home,  feel  the  sweet  comfort  of  a  husband's  arm. 
Being  a  Christian,  his  power  for  good  was  limited. 
But  at  least  he  could  lift  from  them  the  despairing 
conviction  that  they  were  outside  the  pale  of  the 
masculine  affection.  Not  one  of  them,  so  far  as 
he  could  help  it,  but  should  be  able  to  say  : 

11 1 — even  I  had  a  lover  once.  No,  dear,  we 
never  married.  It  was  one  of  those  spiritual 
loves;  a  formal  engagement  with  a  ring  would 
have  spoiled  it — coarsened  it.  No;  it  was  just 
a  beautiful  thing  that  came  into  my  life  and  passed 
away  again,  leaving  behind  it  a  fragrance  that  has 
sweetened  all  my  days." 

That  is  how  he  imagined  they  would  talk  about 
it,  years  afterwards,  to  the  little  niece  or  nephew, 
asking  artless  questions — how  they  would  feel 
about  it  themselves.  Whether  law  circles  are 
peculiarly  rich  in  unattractive  spinsters,  or  whether 
it  merely  happened  to  be  an  exceptional  season 
for  them,  Bute  could  not  say;  but  certain  it  was 
that  the  number  of  sour-faced  girls  and  fretful 
old  maids  in  excess  of  the  demand  seemed  to  be 
greater  than  usual  that  winter  in  Edinburgh,  with 


THEY  AND  I  251 

the  result  that  young  Hapgood  had  a  busy  time 
of  it.     He  made  love  to  them,  not  obtrusively, 
which  might  have  laid  them  open  to  ridicule — 
many  of  them   were    old   enough    to   have    been 
his  mother — but  more  by  insinuation,  by  subtle 
suggestion.     His  feelings,  so  they  gathered,  were 
too  deep  for  words;  but  the  adoring  eyes  with 
which  he  would  follow  their  every  movement,  the 
rapt  ecstasy  with  which  he  would  drink  in  their 
lightest  remark  about  the  weather,   the  tone  of 
almost    reverential    awe    with    which    he    would 
inquire  of  them  concerning  their  lesser  ailments — 
all  conveyed  to  their  sympathetic  observation  the 
message    that   he   dared   not    tell.      He    had    no 
favourites.     Sufficient  it  was  that  a  woman  should 
be  unpleasant,   for  him  to  pour  out  at  her  feet 
the    simulated   passion   of   a   lifetime.      He   sent 
them    presents — nothing    expensive — wrapped    in 
pleasing  pretence  of  anonymity;  valentines  care- 
fully selected  for  their  compromising  character. 
One  carroty-headed  old  maid  with  warts  he  had 
kissed  upon  the  brow. 

All  this  he  did  out  of  his  great  pity  for  them. 
It  was  a  beautiful  idea,  but  it  worked  badly. 
They   did   not   understand — never   got   the   hang 


252  THEY  AND  I 

of  the  thing:  not  one  of  them.  They  thought 
he  was  really  gone  on  them.  For  a  time  his 
elusiveness,  his  backwardness  in  coming  to  the 
point,  they  attributed  to  a  fit  and  proper  fear  of 
his  fate;  but  as  the  months  went  by  the  feeling 
of  each  one  was  that  he  was  carrying  the  appre- 
hension of  his  own  unworthiness  too  far.  They 
gave  him  encouragement,  provided  for  him 
"openings,"  till  the  wonder  grew  upon  them 
how  any  woman  ever  did  get  married.  At  the 
end  of  their  resources,  they  consulted  bosom 
friends.  In  several  instances  the  bosom  friend 
turned  out  to  be  the  bosom  friend  of  more 
than  one  of  them.  The  bosom  friends  began 
to  take  a  hand  in  it.  Some  of  them  came  to 
him  with  quite  a  little  list,  insisting — playfully 
at  first — on  his  making  up  his  mind  what  he 
was  going  to  take  and  what  he  was  going  to 
leave;  offering,  as  reward  for  prompt  decision, 
to  make  things  as  easy  for  him  as  possible  with 
the  remainder  of  the  column. 

It  was  then  he  saw  that  his  good  intentions 
were  likely  to  end  in  catastrophe.  He  would 
not  tell  the  truth:  that  the  whole  scheme  had 
been  conceived  out    of    charity   towards    all    ill- 


THEY  AND  I  253 

constructed  or  dilapidated  ladies;  that  personally 
he  didn't  care  a  hang  for  any  of  them;  had  only 
taken  them  on,  vulgarly  speaking,  to  give  them 
a  treat,  and  because  nobody  else  would.  That 
wasn't  going  to  be  a  golden  memory,  colouring 
their  otherwise  drab  existence.  He  explained 
that  it  was  not  love — not  the  love  that  alone 
would  justify  a  man's  asking  of  a  woman  that 
she  should  give  herself  to  him  for  life — that  he 
felt  and  always  should  feel  for  them,  but  merely 
admiration  and  deep  esteem;  and  seventeen  of 
them  thought  that  would  be  sufficient  to  start 
with,  and  offered  to  change  the  rest. 

The  truth  had  to  come  out.  Friends  who 
knew  his  noble  nature  could  not  sit  by  and  hear 
him  denounced  as  a  heartless  and  eccentric  prof- 
ligate. Ladies  whose  beauty  and  popularity 
were  beyond  dispute  thought  it  a  touching  and 
tender  thing  for  him  to  have  done;  but  every 
woman  to  whom  he  had  ever  addressed  a  kind 
word  wanted  to  wring  his  neck. 

He  did  the  most  sensible  thing  he  could,  under 
all  the  circumstances;  changed  his  address  to 
Aberdeen,  where  he  had  an  aunt  living.  But 
the  story   followed  him.     No  woman  would  be 


254  THEY  AND  I 

seen  speaking  to  him.  One  admiring  glance  from 
Hapgood  would  send  the  prettiest  girls  home 
weeping  to  their  mothers.  Later  on  he  fell  in 
love — hopelessly,  madly  in  love.  But  he  dared 
not  tell  her — dared  not  let  a  living  soul  guess 
it.  That  was  the  only  way  he  could  show  it. 
It  is  not  sufficient,  in  this  world,  to  want  to  do 
good !  there's  got  to  be  a  knack  about  it. 

There  was  a  man  I  met  in  Colorado,  one 
Christmas-time.  I  was  on  a  lecturing  tour.  His 
idea  was  to  send  a  loving  greeting  to  his  wife 
in  New  York.  He  had  been  married  nineteen 
years,  and  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  been 
separated  from  his  family  on  Christmas  Day. 
He  pictured  them  round  the  table  in  the  little 
far-away  New  England  parlour;  his  wife,  his 
sister-in-law,  Uncle  Silas,  Cousin  Jane,  Jack  and 
Willy,  and  golden-haired  Lena.  They  would  be 
just  sitting  down  to  dinner,  talking  about  him, 
most  likely,  wishing  he  were  among  them. 
They  were  a  nice  family  and  all  fond  of  him. 
What  joy  it  would  give  them  to  know  that  he 
was  safe  and  sound;  to  hear  the  very  tones  of 
his  loved  voice  speaking  to  them !  Modern 
science  has  made  possible  these  miracles.     True, 


THEY  AND  I  255 

the  long-distance  telephone  would  cost  him  five 
dollars;  but  what  is  five  dollars  weighed  against 
the  privilege  of  wafting  happiness  to  an  entire 
family  on  Christmas  Day!  We  had  just  come 
back  from  a  walk.  He  slammed  the  money  down, 
and  laughed  aloud  at  the  thought  of  the  surprise 
he  was  about  to  give  them  all. 

The  telephone  bell  rang  out  clear  and  distinct 
at  the  precise  moment  when  his  wife,  with  knife 
and  fork  in  hand,  was  preparing  to  carve  the 
turkey.  She  was  a  nervous  lady,  and  twice  that 
week  had  dreamed  that  she  had  seen  her  husband 
without  being  able  to  get  to  him.  On  the  first 
occasion  she  had  seen  him  enter  a  dry-goods 
store  in  Broadway,  and  hastening  across  the  road 
had  followed  him  in.  He  was  hardly  a  dozen 
yards  in  front  of  her,  but  before  she  could  over- 
take him  all  the  young  lady  assistants  had  rushed 
from  behind  their  counters  and,  forming  a  circle 
round  her,  had  refused  to  let  her  pass,  which  in 
her  dream  had  irritated  her  considerably.  On 
the  next  occasion  he  had  boarded  a  Brooklyn 
car  in  which  she  was  returning  home.  She  had 
tried  to  attract  his  attention  with  her  umbrella, 
but    he    did    not    seem    to    see    her;    and    every 


256  THEY  AND  I 

time  she  rose  to  go  across  to  him  the  car  gave 
a  jerk  and  bumped  her  back  into  her  seat.  When 
she  did  get  over  to  him  it  was  not  her  husband 
at  all,  but  the  gentleman  out  of  the  Quaker 
Oats  advertisement.  She  went  to  the  telephone, 
feeling — as  she  said  herself  afterwards — all  of  a 
tremble. 

That  you  could  speak  from  Colorado  to  New 
York  she  would  not  then  have  believed  had  you 
told  her.  The  thing  was  in  its  early  stages, 
which  may  also  have  accounted  for  the  voice 
reaching  her  strange  and  broken.  I  was  standing 
beside  him  while  he  spoke.  We  were  in  the 
vestibule  of  the  Savoy  Hotel  at  Colorado 
Springs.  It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
which  would  be  about  seven  in  New  York.  He 
told  her  he  was  safe  and  well,  and  that  she  was 
not  to  fret  about  him.  He  told  her  he  had  been 
that  morning  for  a  walk  in  the  Garden  of  the 
Gods,  which  is  the  name  given  to  the  local  park; 
they  do  that  sort  of  thing  in  Colorado.  Also  that 
he  had  drunk  from  the  silicial  springs  abounding  in 
that  favoured  land.  I  am  not  sure  that  "  silicial  " 
was  the  correct  word.  He  was  not  sure  himself: 
added  to  which  he  pronounced  it  badly.     What- 


THEY  AND  I  257 

ever  they  were,  he  assured  her  they  had  done  him 
good.  He  sent  a  special  message  to  his  Cousin  Jane 
— a  maiden  lady  of  means — to  the  effect  that  she 
could  rely  upon  seeing  him  soon.  She  was  a  touchy 
old  lady,  and  liked  to  be  singled  out  for  special 
attention.  He  made  the  usual  kind  inquiries  about 
everybody,  sent  them  all  his  blessing,  and  only 
wished  they  could  be  with  him  in  this  delectable 
land  where  it  seemed  to  be  always  sunshine  and 
balmy  breezes.  He  could  have  said  more,  but  his 
time  being  up  the  telephone  people  switched  him 
off ;  and  feeling  he  had  done  a  good  and  thoughtful 
deed,  he  suggested  a  game  of  billiards. 

Could  he  have  been  a  witness  of  events  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire,  his  condition  would  have 
been  one  of  less  self-complacence.  Long  before 
the  end  of  the  first  sentence  his  wife  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  this  was  a  message  from  the 
dead.  Why  through  a  telephone  did  not  greatly 
worry  her.  It  seemed  as  reasonable  a  medium  as 
any  other  she  had  ever  heard  of — indeed,  a  trifle 
more  so.  Later,  when  she  was  able  to  review  the 
matter  calmly,  it  afforded  her  some  consolation  to 
reflect  that  things  might  have  been  worse.  That 
"  garden,"  together  with  the  "  silicial  springs " — 


258  THEY  AND  I 

which  she  took  to  be  "  celestial,"  there  was  not 
much  difference  the  way  he  pronounced  it- — was 
distinctly  reassuring.  The  "  eternal  sunshine " 
and  the  "  balmy  breezes  "  likewise  agreed  with  her 
knowledge  of  heavenly  topography  as  derived 
from  the  Congregational  Hymn-Book.  That  he 
should  have  needed  to  inquire  concerning  the 
health  of  herself  and  the  children  had  puzzled 
her.  The  only  explanation  was  that  they  didn't 
know  everything,  not  even  up  There — may  be,  not 
the  new-comers.  She  had  answered  as  coherently 
as  her  state  of  distraction  would  permit,  and  had 
then  dropped  limply  to  the  floor.  It  was  the  sound 
of  her  falling  against  the  umbrella-stand  and  up- 
setting it  that  brought  them  all  trooping  out  from 
the  dining-room. 

It  took  her  some  time  to  get  the  thing  home 
to  them;  and  when  she  had  finished,  her  brother 
Silas,  acting  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  rang 
up  the  Exchange,  with  some  vague  idea  of  getting 
into  communication  with  St.  Peter  and  obtaining 
further  particulars,  but  recollected  himself  in  time 
to  explain  to  the  "  hulloa  girl "  that  he  had  made 
a  mistake. 

The  eldest  boy,  a  practical  youth,  pointed  out, 


THEY  AND  I  259 

very  sen.sibly,  that  nothing  could  be  gained  by 
their  not  going  on  with  their  dinner,  but  was  bit- 
terly reproached  for  being  able  to  think  of  any 
form  of  enjoyment  at  a  moment  when  his  poor 
dear  father  was  in  heaven.  It  reminded  his 
mother  of  the  special  message  to  Cousin  Jane,  who 
up  to  that  moment  had  been  playing  the  part  of 
comforter.  With  the  collapse  of  Cousin  Jane, 
dramatic  in  its  suddenness,  conversation  disap- 
peared. At  nine  o'clock  the  entire  family  went 
dinnerless  to  bed. 

The  eldest  boy — as  I  have  said,  a  practical 
youth — had  the  sense  to  get  up  early  the  next 
morning  and  send  a  wire,  which  brought  the  glad 
news  back  to  them  that  their  beloved  one  was  not 
in  heaven,  but  was  still  in  Colorado.  But  the  only 
reward  my  friend  got  for  all  his  tender  thought- 
fulness  was  the  vehement  injunction  never  for  the 
remainder  of  his  life  to  play  such  a  fool's  trick 
again. 

There  were  other  cases  I  could  have  recited 
showing  the  ill  recompense  that  so  often  overtakes 
the  virtuous  action;  but,  as  I  explained  to  Bute,  it 
would  have  saddened  me  to  dwell  upon  the  theme. 

It  was  quite  a  large  party  assembled  at  the  St. 


260  THEY  AND  I 

Leonards',  including  one  or  two  country  people; 
and  I  should  have  liked,  myself,  to  have  made  a 
better  entrance.  A  large  lady  with  a  very  small 
voice  seemed  to  be  under  the  impression  that  I 
had  arranged  the  whole  business  on  purpose.  She 
said  it  was  "  so  dramatic."  One  good  thing  came 
out  of  it :  Janie  in  her  quiet,  quick  way  saw  to  it 
that  Ethelbertha  and  Robina  slipped  into  the 
house  unnoticed  by  way  of  the  dairy.  When  they 
joined  the  other  guests,  half  an  hour  later,  they 
had  had  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  rest,  and  were  feeling 
calm  and  cool,  with  their  hair  nicely  done;  and 
Ethelbertha  remarked  to  Robina  on  the  way  home 
what  a  comfort  it  must  be  to  Mrs.  St.  Leonard  to 
have  a  daughter  so  capable,  one  who  knew  just  the 
right  thing  to  do,  and  did  it  without  making  a 
fuss  and  a  disturbance. 

Every  one  was  very  nice.  Of  course  we  made 
the  usual  mistake:  they  talked  to  me  about  books 
and  plays,  and  I  gave  them  my  views  on  agricul- 
ture and  cub-hunting.  I'm  not  quite  sure  what 
fool  it  was  who  described  a  bore  as  a  man  who 
talked  about  himself.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  is 
the  only  subject  the  average  man  knows  sufficiently 
well  to  make  interesting.    There's  a  man  I  know; 


THEY  AND  I  261 

he  makes  a  fortune  out  of   a    patent    food    for 
infants.    He  began  life  as  a  dairy  farmer,  and  hit 
upon  it  quite  by  accident.     When  he  talks  about 
the  humours  of  company  promoting  and  the  tricks 
of  the  advertising  agent  he  is  amusing.     I  have 
sat  at  his  table,  when  he  was    a    bachelor,    and 
listened  to  him  by  the  hour  with  enjoyment.    The 
mistake  he  made  was  marrying  a  broad-minded, 
cultured  woman,  who  ruined  him — conversation- 
ally, I  mean.     He  is  now  well-informed  and  tire- 
some on  most  topics.     That  is  why    actors    and 
actresses  are  always  such  delightful  company:  they 
are  not  ashamed  to  talk  about    themselves.     I 
remember  a  dinner-party  once:  our  host  was  one 
of  the  best-known  barristers  in  London.  A  famous 
lady  novelist  sat  on  his  right,  and  a  scientist  of 
world-wide   reputation  had  the  place   of  honour 
next  our  hostess,  who  herself  had  written  a  history 
of  the  struggle  for  nationality  in  South  America 
that  serves  as  an  authority  to  all    the    Foreign 
Offices  of  Europe.     Among  the  remaining  guests 
were  a  bishop,   the   editor-in-chief  of  a   London 
daily  newspaper,  a  man  who  knew  the  interior  of 
China  as  well  as  most  men  know  their  own  club,  a 
Russian  revolutionist  just  escaped  from  Siberia, 


262  THEY  AND  1 

a  leading  dramatist,  a  Cabinet  Minister,  and  a 
poet  whose  name  is  a  household  word  wherever  the 
English  tongue  is  spoken.  And  for  two  hours  we 
sat  and  listened  to  a  wicked-looking  little  woman 
who  from  the  boards  of  a  Bowery  music-hall  had 
worked  her  way  up  to  the  position  of  a  star  in 
musical  comedy.  Education,  as  she  observed  her- 
self without  regret,  had  not  been  compulsory 
throughout  the  waterside  district  of  Chicago  in  her 
young  days;  and,  compelled  to  earn  her  own  living 
from  the  age  of  thirteen,  opportunity  for  supplying 
the  original  deficiency  had  been  wanting.  But  she 
knew  her  subject,  which  was  Herself — her  experi- 
ences, her  reminiscences:  and  had  sense  enough  to 
stick  to  it.  Until  the  moment  when  she  took  "  the 
liberty  of  chipping  in,"  to  use  her  own  expression, 
the  amount  of  twaddle  talked  had  been  appalling. 
The  bishop  had  told  us  all  he  had  learnt  about 
China  during  a  visit  to  San  Francisco,  while  the 
man  who  had  spent  the  last  twenty  years  of  his 
life  in  the  country  was  busy  explaining  his  views 
on  the  subject  of  the  English  drama.  Our  hostess 
had  been  endeavouring  to  make  the  scientist  feel 
at  home  by  talking  to  him  about  radium.  The 
dramatist  had  explained  at  some  length  his  views 


THEY  AND  I  263 

of  the  crisis  in  Russia.  The  poet  had  quite  spoilt 
his  dinner  trying  to  suggest  to  the  Cabinet  Min- 
ister new  sources  of  taxation.  The  Russian  revo- 
lutionist had  told  us  what  ought  to  have  been  a 
funny  story  about  a  duck;  and  the  lady  novelist 
and  the  Cabinet  Minister  had  discussed  Christian 
Science  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  each  under  the 
mistaken  impression  that  the  other  one  was  a 
believer  in  it.  The  editor  had  been  explaining  the 
attitude  of  the  Church  towards  the  new  Theology; 
and  our  host,  one  of  the  wittiest  men  at  the  Bar, 
had  been  talking  chiefly  to  the  butler.  The  relief 
of  listening  to  anybody  talking  about  something 
they  knew  was  like  finding  a  match-box  to  a  man 
who  has  been  barking  his  shins  in  the  dark.  For 
the  rest  of  the  dinner  we  clung  to  her. 

I  could  have  made  myself  quite  interesting  to 
these  good  squires  and  farmers  talking  to  them 
about  theatres  and  the  literary  celebrities  I  have 
met!  and  they  could  have  told  me  dog  stories  and 
given  me  useful  information  as  to  the  working  of 
the  Small  Holdings  Act.  They  said  some  very 
charming  things  about  my  books — mostly  to  the 
effect  that  they  read  and  enjoyed  them  when  feel- 
ing ill  or  suffering  from  mental  collapse.     I  gath- 


264  THEY  AND  I 

ered  that  had  they  always  continued  in  a  healthy 
state  of  mind  and  body  it  would  not  have  occurred 
to  them  to  read  me.  One  man  assured  me  I  had 
saved  his  life.  It  was  his  brain,  he  told  me.  He 
had  been  so  upset  by  something  that  had  happened 
to  him  that  he  had  almost  lost  his  reason.  There 
were  times  when  he  could  not  even  remember  his 
own  name;  his  mind  seemed  an  absolute  blank. 
And  then  one  day  by  chance — or  Providence,  or 
whatever  you  choose  to  call  it — he  had  taken  up  a 
book  of  mine.  It  was  the  only  thing  he  had  been 
able  to  read  for  months  and  months !  And  now, 
whenever  he  felt  himself  run  down — his  brain 
like  a  squeezed  orange  (that  was  his  simile)  — 
he  would  put  everything  else  aside  and  read  a 
book  of  mine — any  one:  it  didn't  matter  which. 
I  suppose  one  ought  to  be  glad  that  one  has  saved 
somebody's  life;  but  I  should  like  to  have  the 
choosing  of  them  myself. 

I  am  not  sure  that  Ethelbertha  is  going  to  like 
Mrs.  St.  Leonard;  and  I  don't  think  Mrs.  St. 
Leonard  will  much  like  Ethelbertha.  I  have  gath- 
ered that  Mrs.  St.  Leonard  doesn't  like  anybody 
much — except,  of  course,  when  it  is  her  duty.  She 
does  not  seem  to  have  the  time.     Man  is  born  to 


THEY  AND  I  265 

trouble,  and  it  is  not  bad  philosophy  to  get  oneself 
accustomed  to  the  feeling.  But  Mrs.  St.  Leonard 
has  given  herself  up  to  the  pursuit  of  trouble  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  other  interests  in  life.  She  appears 
to  regard  it  as  the  only  calling  worthy  a  Chris- 
tian woman.  I  found  her  alone  one  afternoon. 
Her  manner  was  preoccupied;  I  asked  if  I  could 
be  of  any  assistance. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  am  merely  trying  to 
think  what  it  can  be  that  has  been  worrying  me  all 
the  morning.    It  has  clean  gone  out  of  my  head." 

She  remembered  it  a  little  later  with  a  glad 
sigh. 

St.  Leonard  himself,  Ethelbertha  thinks  charm- 
ing. We  are  to  go  again  on  Sunday  for  her  to  see 
the  children.  Three  or  four  people  we  met  I  fancy 
we  shall  be  able  to  fit  in  with.  We  left  at  half-past 
six,  and  took  Bute  back  with  us  to  supper. 


CHAPTER   X 

"  She's  a  good  woman,"  said  Robina. 

"Who's  a  good  woman?  "  I  asked. 

"He's  trying,  I  expect;  although  he  is  an  old 
dear:  to  live  with,  I  mean,"  continued  Robina, 
addressing  apparently  the  rising  moon.  "And 
then  there  are  all  those  children." 

"  You  are  thinking  of  Mrs.  St.  Leonard,"  I 
suggested. 

"  There  seems  no  way  of  making  her  happy," 
explained  Robina.  "  On  Thursday  I  went  round 
early  in  the  morning  to  help  Janie  pack  the  baskets 
for  the  picnic.    It  was  her  own  idea,  the  picnic." 

"  Speaking  of  picnics,"  I  said. 

"  You  might  have  thought,"  went  on  Robina, 
"  that  she  was  dressing  for  her  own  funeral.  She 
said  she  knew  she  was  going  to  catch  her  death  of 
cold,  sitting  on  the  wet  grass.  Something  told 
her.  I  reminded  her  it  hadn't  rained  for  three 
weeks,  and  that  everything  was  as  dry  as  a  bone, 
but  she  said  that  made  no  difference  to  grass. 
There  is  always  a  moisture  in  grass,   and  that 

266 


THEY  AND  I  267 

cushions  and  all  that  only  helped  to  draw  it  out. 
Not  that  it  mattered.  The  end  had  to  come,  and 
so  long  as  the  others  were  happy — you  know  her 
style.  Nobody  ever  thought  of  her.  She  was  to 
be  dragged  here,  dragged  there.  She  talked  about 
herself  as  if  she  were  some  sacred  image.  It  got 
upon  my  nerves  at  last,  so  that  I  persuaded  Janie 
to  let  me  offer  to  stop  at  home  with  her.  I  wasn't 
too  keen  about  going  myself;  not  by  that 
time." 

11 '  When  our  desires  leave  us,'  says  Roche- 
foucauld," I  remarked,  "  'we  pride  ourselves  upon 
our  virtue  in  having  overcome  them.'  ' 

"Well,  it  was  her  fault,  anyhow,"  retorted 
Robina ;  "  and  I  didn't  make  a  virtue  of  it.  I  told 
her  I'd  just  as  soon  not  go,  and  that  I  felt  sure 
the  others  would  be  all  right  without  her,  so  that 
there  was  no  need  for  her  to  be  dragged  anywhere. 
And  then  she  burst  into  tears." 

"  She  said,"  I  suggested,  "  that  it  was  hard  on 
her  to  have  children  who  could  wish  to  go  to  a 
picnic  and  leave  their  mother  at  home;  that  it  was 
little  enough  enjoyment  she  had  in  her  life, 
heaven  knows;  that  if  there  was  one  thing  she  had 
been  looking  forward  to  it  was  this  day's  outing; 


268  THEY  AND  I 

but  still,  of  course,  if  everybody  would  be  happier 
without  her " 

"Something  of  the  sort,"  admitted  Robina; 
"only  there  was  a  lot  of  it.  We  had  to  all  fuss 
round  her,  and  swear  that  without  her  it  wouldn't 
be  worth  calling  a  picnic.  She  brightened  up  on 
the  way  home." 

The  screech-owl  in  the  yew-tree  emitted  a 
blood-curdling  scream.  He  perches  there  each 
evening  on  the  extreme  end  of  the  longest  bough. 
Dimly  outlined  against  the  night,  he  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  friendly  hobgoblin.  But  I  wish  he 
didn't  fancy  himself  as  a  vocalist.  It  is  against 
his  own  interests,  I  am  sure,  if  he  only  knew  it. 
That  American  college  yell  of  his  must  have  the 
effect  of  sending  every  living  thing  within  half  a 
mile  back  into  its  hole.  Maybe  it  is  a  provision 
of  nature  for  clearing  off  the  very  old  mice  who 
have  become  stone  deaf  and  would  otherwise  be 
a  burden  on  their  relatives.  The  others,  unless  out 
for  suicide,  must,  one  thinks,  be  tolerably  safe. 
Ethelbertha  is  persuaded  he  is  a  sign  of  death ;  but 
seeing  there  isn't  a  square  quarter  of  a  mile  in  this 
county  without  its  scheech-owl,  there  can  hardly 
by  this  time  be  a  resident  that  an  Assurance  Society 


THEY  AND  I  269 

would  look  at.  Veronica  likes  him.  She  even 
likes  his  screech.  I  found  her  under  the  tree  the 
other  night,  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  trying  to 
learn  it.  As  if  one  of  them  were  not  enough!  It 
made  me  quite  cross  with  her.  Besides,  it  wasn't 
a  bit  like  it,  as  I  told  her.  She  said  it  was  better 
than  I  could  do,  anyhow;  and  I  was  idiot  enough 
to  take  up  the  challenge.  It  makes  me  angry  now, 
when  I  think  of  it:  a  respectable,  middle-aged 
literary  man,  standing  under  a  yew-tree  trying  to 
screech  like  an  owl.  And  the  bird  was  silly 
enough  to  encourage  us. 

"  She  was  a  charming  girl,"  I  said,  "  seven- 
and-twenty  years  ago,  when  St.  Leonard  fell  in 
love  with  her.  She  had  those  dark,  dreamy  eyes 
so  suggestive  of  veiled  mysteries;  and  her  lips 
must  have  looked  bewitching  when  they  pouted. 
I  expect  they  often  did.  They  do  so  still ;  but  the 
pout  of  a  woman  of  forty-six  no  longer  fascinates. 
To  a  pretty  girl  of  nineteen  a  spice  of  temper,  an 
illogical  unreasonableness,  are  added  attractions: 
the  scratch  of  a  blue-eyed  kitten  only  tempts  us  to 
tease  her  the  more.  Young  Hubert  St.  Leonard — 
he  had  curly  brown  hair,  with  a  pretty  trick  of 
blushing,  and  was  going  to  conquer  the  world — 


270  THEY  AND  I 

found  her  fretfulness,  her  very  selfishness  ador- 
able :  and  told  her  so,  kneeling  before  her,  gazing 
into  her  bewildering  eyes — only  he  called  it  way- 
wardness, her  imperiousness;  begged  her  for  his 
sake  to  be  more  capricious.  Told  her  how  beau- 
tiful she  looked  when  displeased.  So,  no  doubt,  she 
did — at  nineteen." 

"He  didn't  tell  you  all  that,  did  he?"  de- 
manded Robina. 

"  Not  a  word,"  I  reassured  her,  "  except  that 
she  was  acknowledged  by  all  authorities  to  have 
been  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  Turnbridge  Wells, 
and  that  her  father  had  been  ruined  by  a  rascally 
solicitor.  No,  I  was  merely,  to  use  the  phrase  of 
the  French  police  courts,  '  reconstructing  the 
crime.' " 

"  It  may  be  all  wrong,"  grumbled  Robina. 

"It  may  be,"  I  agreed.  "But  why?  Does  it 
strike  you  as  improbable?" 

We  were  sitting  in  the  porch,  waiting  for  Dick 
to  come   by  the  white  path  across  the  field. 

"  No,"  answered  Robina.  "  It  all  sounds  very 
probable.    I  wish  it  didn't." 

"  You  must  remember,"  I  continued,  "  that  I 
am  an  old  playgoer.     I  have  sat  out  so  many  of 


THEY  AND  I  271 

this  world's  dramas.  It  is  as  easy  to  reconstruct 
them  backwards  as  forwards.  We  are  witnessing 
the  last  act  of  the  St.  Leonard  drama:  that  un- 
satisfactory last  act  that  merely  fills  out  time  after 
the  play  is  ended!  The  intermediate  acts  were 
probably  more  exciting,  containing  '  passionate 
scenes'  played  with  much  earnestness;  chiefly 
for  the  amusement  of  the  servants.  But  the  first 
act,  with  the  Kentish  lanes  and  woods  for  a  back- 
cloth,  must  have  been  charming.  Here  was  the 
devout  lover  she  had  heard  of,  dreamed  of.  It  is 
delightful  to  be  regarded  as  perfection — not  ab- 
solute perfection,  for  that  might  put  a  strain  upon 
us  to  live  up  to,  but  as  so  near  perfection  that  to 
be  more  perfect  would  just  spoil  it.  The  spots 
upon  us,  that  unappreciative  friends  and  relations 
would  magnify  into  blemishes,  seen  in  their  true 
light:  artistic  shading  relieving  a  faultlessness  that 
might  otherwise  prove  too  glaring.  Dear  Hubert 
found  her  excellent  just  as  she  was  in  every  detail. 
It  would  have  been  a  crime  against  Love  for  her 
to  seek  to  change  herself." 

"Well,  then,  it  was  his  fault,"  argued  Robina. 
"  If  he  was  silly  enough  to  like  her  faults,  and 
encourage  her  in  them " 


272  THEY  AND  I 

"  What  could  he  have  done,"  I  asked,  "  even 
if  he  had  seen  them?  A  lover  does  not  point  out 
his  mistress's  shortcomings  to  her." 

"  Much  the  more  sensible  plan  if  he  did,"  in- 
sisted Robina.  "Then  if  she  cared  for  him  she 
could  set  to  work  to  cure  herself." 

"You  would  like  it?"  I  said;  "you  would 
appreciate  it  in  your  own  case?  Can  you  imagine 
young  Bute — ■ — ?  " 

"Why  young  Bute?"  demanded  Robina; 
"  what's  he  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

"Nothing,"  I  answered;  "except  that  he  hap- 
pens to  be  the  first  male  creature  you  have  ever 
come  across  since  you  were  six  that  you  haven't 
flirted  with." 

"I  don't  flirt  with  them,"  said  Robina;  "I 
merely  try  to  be  nice  to  them." 

"  With  the  exception  of  young  Bute,"  I  per- 
sisted. 

"  He  irritates  me,"  Robina  explained. 

"  I  was  reading,"  I  said,  "  the  other  day,  an 
account  of  the  marriage  customs  prevailing  among 
the  Lower  Caucasians.  The  lover  takes  his  stand 
beneath  his  lady's  window,  and,  having  attracted 
her  attention,  proceeds  to  sing.    And  if  she  seems 


THEY  AND  I  273 

to  like  it — if  she  listens  to  it  without  getting  mad, 
that  means  she  doesn't  want  him.  But  if  she  gets 
upset  about  it — slams  down  the  window  and  walks 
away,  then  it's  all  right.  I  think  it's  the  Lower 
Caucasians." 

"Must  be  a  very  silly  people,"  said  Robina; 
"  I  suppose  a  pail  of  water  would  be  the  highest 
proof  of  her  affection  he  could  hope  for." 

"A  complex  being,  man,"  I  agreed.  "  We  will 
call  him  X.  Can  you  imagine  young  X  coming 
to  you  and  saying:  '  My  dear  Robina,  you  have 
many  excellent  qualities.  You  can  be  amiable — 
so  long  as  you  are  having  your  own  way  in  every- 
thing; but  thwarted  you  can  be  just  horrid.  You 
are  very  kind — to  those  who  are  willing  for  you  to 
be  kind  to  them  in  your  own  way,  which  is  not 
always  their  way.  You  can  be  quite  unselfish — 
when  you  happen  to  be  in  an  unselfish  mood,  which 
is  far  from  frequent.  You  are  capable  and  clever, 
but,  like  most  capable  and  clever  people,  impatient 
and  domineering;  highly  energetic  when  not  feel- 
ing lazy;  ready  to  forgive  the  moment  your  tem- 
per is  exhausted.  You  are  generous  and  frank, 
but  if  your  object  could  only  be  gained  through 
meanness  or  deceit    you  would    not    hesitate    a 


274  THEY  AND  I 

moment  longer  than  was  necessary  to  convince 
yourself  that  the  circumstances  justified  the  means. 
You  are  sympathetic,  tender-hearted,  and  have 
a  fine  sense  of  justice;  but  I  can  see  that  tongue 
of  yours,  if  not  carefully  watched,  wearing  de- 
cidedly shrewish.  You  have  any  amount  of  grit. 
A  man  might  go  tiger-hunting  with  you — with  no 
one  better;  but  you  are  obstinate,  conceited,  and 
exacting.  In  short,  to  sum  you  up,  you  have  all 
the  makings  in  you  of  an  ideal  wife  combined 
with  faults  sufficient  to  make  a  Socrates  regret 
he'd  ever  married  you.'  " 

"  Yes,  I  would !  "  said  Robina,  springing  to 
her  feet.  I  could  not  see  her  face,  but  I  knew 
there  was  the  look  upon  it  that  made  Primgate 
want  to  paint  her  as  Joan  of  Arc;  only  it  would 
never  stop  long  enough.  "  I'd  love  him  for  talk- 
ing like  that.  And  I'd  respect  him.  If  he  was 
that  sort  of  man,  I'd  pray  God  to  help  me  to  be 
the  sort  of  woman  he  wanted  me  to  be.  I'd  try. 
I'd  try  all  day  long.     I  would!  " 

"  I  wonder,"  I  said.  Robina  had  surprised  me. 
I  admit  it.     I  thought  I  knew  the  sex  better. 

"Any  girl  would,"  said  Robina.  "He'd  be 
worth  it." 


THEY  AND  I  275 

"  It  would  be  a  new  idea,"  I  mused.  "  Gott 
in  Himmel!  what  a  new  world  might  it  not 
create !  "  The  fancy  began  to  take  hold  of  me. 
"  Love  no  longer  blind.  Love  refusing  any  more 
to  be  the  poor  blind  fool — sport  of  gods  and  men. 
Love  no  longer  passion's  slave.  His  bonds 
broken,  the  senseless  bandage  flung  aside.  Love 
helping  life  instead  of  muddling  it.  Marriage, 
the  foundation  of  civilisation,  no  longer  reared 
upon  the  sands  of  lies  and  illusions,  but  grappled 
to  the  rock  of  truth — reality.  Have  you  ever 
read  'Tom  Jones'?"  I  said. 

"No,"  answered  Robina;  "I've  always  heard 
it  wasn't  a  nice  book." 

"  It  isn't,"  I  said.  "  Man  isn't  a  nice  animal, 
not  all  of  him.  Nor  woman  either.  There's  a 
deal  of  the  beast  in  man.  What  can  you  expect? 
Till  a  few  paltry  thousands  of  years  ago  he  was 
a  beast,  fighting  with  other  beasts,  his  fellow 
denizens  of  the  woods  and  caves;  watching  for 
his  prey,  crouched  in  the  long  grass  of  the  river's 
bank,  tearing  it  with  claws  and  teeth,  growling  as 
he  ate.  So  he  lived  and  died  through  the  dim 
unnamed  ages,  transmitting  his  beast's  blood,  his 
bestial   instincts,   to   his   offspring,    growing   ever 


276  THEY  AND  I 

stronger,  fiercer,  from  generation  to  generation, 
while  the  rocks  piled  up  their  strata  and  the 
oceans  shaped  their  beds.  Moses!  Why,  Lord 
Rothschild's  great-grandfather,  a  few  score  times 
removed,  must  have  known  Moses,  talked  with 
him.  Babylon!  It  is  a  modern  city,  fallen  into 
disuse  for  the  moment,  owing  to  alteration  of 
traffic  routes.  History!  it  is  a  tale  of  to-day. 
Man  was  crawling  about  the  world  on  all  fours, 
learning  to  be  an  animal  for  millions  of  years 
before  the  secret  of  his  birth  was  whispered  to 
him.  It  is  only  during  the  last  few  centuries 
that  he  has  been  trying  to  be  a  man.  Our  modern 
morality!  Why,  compared  with  the  teachings 
of  nature,  it  is  but  a  few  days  old.  What  do  you 
expect?  That  he  shall  forget  the  lessons  of  the 
eons  at  the  bidding  of  the  hours?  " 

"Then  you  advise  me  to  read  'Tom  Jones?'" 
said  Robina. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  do.  I  should  not  if  I 
thought  you  were  still  a  child,  knowing  only  blind 
trust,  or  blind  terror.  The  sun  is  not  extinguished 
because  occasionally  obscured  by  mist;  the  scent 
of  the  rose  is  not  dead  because  of  the  worm  in  the 
leaf.     A  healthy  rose  can  afford  a  few  worms — 


THEY  AND  I  277 

has  got  to,  anyhow.  All  men  are  not  Tom 
Joneses.  The  standard  of  masculine  behaviour 
continues  to  go  up:  many  of  us  make  fine  efforts 
to  conform  to  it,  and  some  of  us  succeed.  But 
the  Tom  Jones  is  there  in  all  of  us  who  are  not 
anaemic  or  consumptive.  And  there's  no  sense 
at  all  in  getting  cross  with  us  about  it,  because 
we  cannot  help  it.  We  are  doing  our  best.  In 
another  hundred  thousand  years  or  so,  provided 
all  goes  well,  we  shall  be  the  perfect  man.  And 
seeing  our  early  training,  I  flatter  myself  that, 
up  to  the  present,  we  have  done  remarkably 
well." 

"Nothing  like  being  satisfied  with  oneself," 
said  Robina. 

"I'm  not  satisfied,"  I  said;  "I'm  only  hopeful. 
But  it  irritates  me  when  I  hear  people  talk  as 
though  man  had  been  born  a  white-souled  angel 
and  was  making  supernatural  efforts  to  become 
a  sinner.  That  seems  to  me  the  way  to  dis- 
courage him.  What  he  wants  is  bucking  up; 
somebody  to  say  to  him,  '  Bravo !  why,  this  is 
splendid!  Just  think,  my  boy,  what  you  were, 
and  that  not  so  very  long  ago — an  unwashed, 
hairy  savage;  your  law  that  of  the  jungle,  your 


278  THEY  AND  I 

morals  those  of  the  rabbit-warren.  Now  look  at 
yourself — dressed  in  your  little  shiny  hat,  your 
trousers  neatly  creased,  walking  with  your  wife 
to  church  on  Sunday !  Keep  on — that's  all  you've 
got  to  do.  In  a  few  more  centuries  your  own 
mother  Nature  won't  know  you.' 

"You  women,"  I  continued;  "why,  a  handful 
of  years  ago  we  bought  and  sold  you,  kept  you 
in  cages,  took  the  stick  to  you  when  you  were  not 
spry  in  doing  what  you  were  told.  Did  you  ever 
read  the  history  of  Patient  Griselda?" 

"Yes,"  said  Robina,  "I  have."  I  gathered 
from  her  tone  that  the  Joan  of  Arc  expression 
had  departed.  Had  Primgate  wanted  to  paint 
her  at  that  particular  moment  I  should  have  sug- 
gested Katherine — during  the  earlier  stages — 
listening  to  a  curtain  lecture  from  Petruchio. 
"  Are  you  suggesting  that  all  women  should  take 
her  for  a  model?  " 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  Im  not.  Though  were  we 
living  in  Chaucer's  time  I  might;  and  you  would 
not  think  it  even  silly.  What  I'm  impressing 
upon  you  is  that  the  human  race  has  yet  a  little 
way  to  travel  before  the  average  man  can  be  re- 
garded as  an  up-to-date  edition  of  King  Arthur — 


THEY  AND  I  279 

the  King  Arthur  of  the  poetical  legend,  I  mean 
Don't  be  too  impatient  with  him." 

"  Thinking  what  a  beast  he  has  been  ought  to 
make  him  impatient  himself  with  himself,"  con- 
sidered Robina.  "  He  ought  to  be  feeling  so 
ashamed  of  himself  as  to  be  willing  to  do  any- 
thing." 

The  owl  in  the  old  yew  screamed,  whether  with 
indignation  or  amusement  I  cannot  tell. 

"  And  woman,"  I  said,  "  had  the  power  been 
hers,  would  she  have  used  it  to  sweeter  purpose? 
Where  is  your  evidence?  Your  Cleopatras, 
Pompadours,  Jazebels;  your  Catherines  of  Russia, 
late  Empresses  of  China;  your  Faustines  of  all 
ages  and  all  climes;  your  Mother  Brownriggs; 
your  Lucretia  Borgias,  Salomes — I  could  weary 
you  with  names.  Your  Roman  task-mistresses; 
your  drivers  of  lodging-house  slaveys;  your 
ladies  who  whipped  their  pages  to  death  in  the 
Middle  Ages;  your  modern  dames  of  fashion, 
decked  with  the  plumage  of  the  tortured  grove. 
There  have  been  other  women  also — noble  women, 
their  names  like  beacon-lights  studding  the  dark 
waste  of  history.  So  there  have  been  noble  men 
— saints,   martyrs,   heroes.     The   sex-line   divides 


280  THEY  AND  I 

us  physically,  not  morally.  Woman  has  been 
man's  accomplice  in  too  many  crimes  to  claim  to 
be  his  judge.  '  Male  and  female  created  He 
them  ' — like  and  like,  for  good  and  evil." 

By  good  fortune  I  found  a  loose  match.  I 
lighted  a  fresh  cigar. 

"  Dick,  I  suppose,  is  the  average  man,"  said 
Robina. 

11  Most  of  us  are,"  I  said,  "  when  we  are  at 
home.  Carlyle  was  the  average  man  in  the  little 
front  parlour  in  Cheyne  Row,  though,  to  hear 
fools  talk,  you  might  think  no  married  couple  out- 
side literary  circles  had  ever  been  known  to  ex- 
change a  cross  look.  So  was  Oliver  Cromwell  in 
his  own  palace  with  the  door  shut.  Mrs.  Crom- 
well must  have  thought  him  monstrous  silly, 
placing  sticky  sweetmeats  for  his  guests  to  sit  on 
— told  him  so,  most  likely.  A  cheery,  kindly 
man,  notwithstanding,  though  given  to  moods. 
He  and  Mrs.  Cromwell  seem  to  have  rubbed 
along,  on  the  whole,  pretty  well  together.  Old 
Sam  Johnson — great,  God-fearing,  lovable,  can- 
tankerous old  brute!  Life  with  him,  in  a  small 
house  on  a  limited  income,  must  have  had  its  ups 
and   downs.      Milton   and   Frederick   the   Great 


THEY  AND  I  281 

were,  one  hopes,  a  little  below  the  average.  Did 
their  best,  no  doubt;  lacked  understanding.  Not 
so  easy  as  it  looks,  living  up  to  the  standard  of 
the  average  man.  Very  clever  people,  in  partic- 
ular, find  it  tiring." 

11 1  shall  never  marry,"  said  Robina.  "  At 
least,  I  hope  I  shan't" 

"Why  'hope'?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  I  hope  I  shall  never  be  idiot 
enough,"  she  answered.  "  I  see  it  all  so  clearly. 
I  wish  I  didn't.  Love!  it's  only  an  ugly  thing 
with  a  pretty  name.  It  will  not  be  me  that  he 
will  fall  in  love  with.  He  will  not  know  me  until 
it  is  too  late.  How  can  he?  It  will  be  merely 
with  the  outside  of  me — my  pink-and-white  skin, 
my  rounded  arms.  I  feel  it  sometimes  when  I  see 
men  looking  at  me,  and  it  makes  me  mad.  And 
at  other  times  the  admiration  in  their  eyes  pleases 
me.     And  that  makes  me  madder  still." 

The  moon  had  slipped  behind  the  wood.  She 
had  risen,  and,  leaning  against  the  porch,  was 
standing  with  her  hands  clasped.  I  fancy  she  had 
forgotten  me.  She  seemed  to  be  talking  to  the 
night. 

"  It's  only  a  trick  of  Nature  to  make   fools 


282  THEY  AND  I 

of  us,"  she  said.  "  He  will  tell  me  I  am  all 
the  world  to  him;  that  his  love  will  outlive  the 
stars — will  believe  it  himself  at  the  time,  poor 
fellow !  He  will  call  me  a  hundred  pretty  names, 
will  kiss  my  feet  and  hands.  And  if  I'm  fool 
enough  to  listen  to  him,  it  may  last" — she 
laughed ;  it  was  rather  an  ugly  laugh — "  six 
months;  with  luck  perhaps  a  year,  if  I'm  careful 
not  to  go  out  in  the  east  wind  and  come  home  with 
a  red  nose,  and  never  let  him  catch  me  in  curl 
papers.  It  will  not  be  me  that  he  will  want :  only 
my  youth,  and  the  novelty  of  me,  and  the  mystery. 
And  when  that  is  gone " 

She  turned  to  me.  It  was  a  strange  face  I  saw 
then  in  the  pale  light,  quite  a  fierce  little  face. 
She  laid  her  hands  upon  my  shoulders,  and  I  felt 
them  cold.  "What  comes  when  it  is  dead?" 
she  said.  "What  follows?  You  must  know. 
Tell  me.     I  want  the  truth." 

Her  vehemence  had  arisen  so  suddenly.  The 
little  girl  I  had  set  out  to  talk  with  was  no  longer 
there.  To  my  bewilderment,  it  was  a  woman  that 
was  questioning  me. 

I  drew  her  down  beside  me.  But  the  childish 
face  was  still  stern. 


THEY  AND  I  283 

"I  want  the  truth,"  she  said;  so  that  I  an- 
swered very  gravely: 

"When  the  passion  is  passed;  when  the  glory 
and  the  wonder  of  Desire — Nature's  eternal 
ritual  of  marriage,  solemnising,  sanctifying  it  to 
her  commands — is  ended;  then,  sooner  or  later, 
some  grey  dawn  finds  you  wandering  bewildered 
in  once  familiar  places,  seeking  vainly  the  lost 
palace  of  youth's  dreams;  when  Love's  frenzy  is 
faded,  like  the  fragrance  of  the  blossom,  like  the 
splendour  of  the  dawn;  there  will  remain  to  you, 
just  what  was  there  before — no  more,  no  less. 
If  passion  was  all  you  had  to  give  to  one  another, 
God  help  you.  You  have  had  your  hour  of  mad- 
ness. It  is  finished.  If  greed  of  praise  and 
worship  was  your  price — well,  you  have  had  your 
payment.  The  bargain  is  complete.  If  mere 
hope  to  be  made  happy  was  your  lure,  one  pities 
you.  We  do  not  make  each  other  happy.  Hap- 
piness is  the  gift  of  the  gods,  not  of  man.  The 
secret  lies  within  you,  not  without.  What  re- 
mains to  you  will  depend  not  upon  what  you 
thought,  but  upon  what  you  are.  If  behind  the 
lover  there  was  the  man — behind  the  impossible 
goddess    of    his    love-sick    brain    some    honest, 


284  THEY  AND  I 

human  woman,  then  life  lies  not  behind  you,  but 
before  you. 

"  Life  is  giving,  not  getting.  That  is  the 
mistake  we  most  of  us  set  out  with.  It  is  the 
work  that  is  the  joy,  not  the  wages!  the  game, 
not  the  score.  The  lover's  delight  is  to  yield, 
not  to  claim.  The  crown  of  motherhood  is  pain. 
To  serve  the  State  at  cost  of  ease  and  leisure; 
to  spend  his  thought  and  labour  upon  a  hundred 
schemes,  is  the  man's  ambition.  Life  is  doing, 
not  having.  It  is  to  gain  the  peak  the  climber 
strives,  not  to  possess  it.  Fools  marry  thinking 
what  they  are  going  to  get  out  of  it:  good  store 
of  joys  and  pleasure,  opportunities  for  self-in- 
dulgence, eternal  soft  caresses — the  wages  of  the 
wanton.  The  rewards  of  marriage  are  toil,  duty, 
responsibility — manhood,  womanhood.  Love's 
baby  talk  you  will  have  outgrown.  You  will  no 
longer  be  his  '  Goddess,'  '  Angel,'  '  Popsy 
Wopsy,'  '  Queen  of  his  heart.'  There  are  finer 
names  than  these:  wife,  mother,  priestess  in  the 
temple  of  humanity.  Marriage  is  renunciation, 
the  sacrifice  of  Self  upon  the  altar  of  the  race. 
*  A  trick  of  nature,'  you  call  it.     Perhaps.     But 


THEY  AND  I  285 

a  trick  of  Nature  compelling  you  to  surrender 
yourself  to  the  purposes  of  God." 

I  fancy  we  must  have  sat  in  silence  for  quite 
a  long  while;  for  the  moon,  creeping  upward 
past  the  wood,  had  flooded  the  fields  again  with 
light  before   Robina  spoke. 

"  Then  all  love  is  needless,"  she  said,  "  we 
could  do  better  without  it,  choose  with  more  dis- 
cretion. If  it  is  only  something  that  worries  us 
for  a  little  while  and  then  passes,  what  is  the 
sense  of  it?  " 

"  You  could  ask  the  same  question  of  Life 
itself,"  I  said;  "'something  that  worries  us  for 
a  little  while,  then  passes.'  Perhaps  the  '  worry,' 
as  you  call  it,  has  its  uses.  Volcanic  upheavals 
are  necessary  to  the  making  of  a  world.  With- 
out them  the  ground  would  remain  rock-bound, 
unfitted  for  its  purposes.  That  explosion  of 
Youth's  pent-up  forces  that  we  term  Love  serves 
to  the  making  of  man  and  woman.  It  does  not 
die,  it  takes  new  shape.  The  blossom  fades  as 
the  fruit  forms.  The  passion  passes  to  give 
place  to  peace.  The  trembling  lover  has  become 
the  helper,  the  comforter,  the  husband." 


286  THEY  AND  I 

"But  the  failures,"  Robina  persisted;  "I  do 
not  mean  the  silly  or  the  wicked  people;  but  the 
people  who  begin  by  really  loving  one  another, 
only  to  end  in  disliking — almost  hating  one  an- 
other.    How  do  they  get  there?" 

"  Sit  down,"  I  said,  "  and  I  will  tell  you  a 
story. 

"  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  girl,  and  a  boy 
who  loved  her.  She  was  a  clever,  brilliant  girl, 
and  she  had  the  face  of  an  angel.  They  lived 
near  to  one  another,  seeing  each  other  almost 
daily.  But  the  boy,  awed  by  the  difference  of 
their  social  position,  kept  his  secret,  as  he  thought, 
to  himself;  dreaming,  as  youth  will,  of  the  day 
when  fame  and  wealth  would  bridge  the  gulf 
between  them.  The  kind  look  in  her  eyes,  the 
occasional  seeming  pressure  of  her  hand,  he  al- 
lowed to  feed  his  hopes;  and  on  the  morning  of 
his  departure  for  London  an  incident  occurred 
that  changed  his  vague  imaginings  to  set  re- 
solve. He  had  sent  on  his  scanty  baggage  by 
the  carrier,  intending  to  walk  the  three  miles  to 
the  station.  It  was  early  in  the  morning,  and  he 
had  not  expected  to  meet  a  soul.  But  a  mile 
from  the  village  he  overtook  her.     She  was  read- 


THEY  AND  I  287 

ing  a  book,  but  she  made  no  pretence  that  the 
meeting  was  accidental,  leaving  him  to  form  what 
conclusions  he  would.  She  walked  with  him  some 
distance,  and  he  told  her  of  his  plans  and  hopes; 
and  she  answered  him  quite  simply  that  she  should 
always  remember  him,  always  be  more  glad  than 
she  could  tell  to  hear  of  his  success.  Near  the 
end  of  the  lane  they  parted,  she  wishing  him  in 
that  low  sweet  woman's  voice  of  hers  all  things 
good.  He  turned,  a  little  farther  on,  and  found 
that  she  had  also  turned.  She  waved  her  hand 
to  him,  smiling.  And  through  the  long  day's 
journey  and  through  many  days  to  come  there 
remained  with  him  that  picture  of  her,  bringing 
with  it  the  scent  of  the  pine-woods:  her  white 
hand  waving  to  him,  her  sweet  eyes  smiling  wist- 
fully. 

"  But  fame  and  fortune  are  not  won  so  quickly 
as  boys  dream,  nor  is  life  as  easy  to  live  bravely  as 
it  looks  in  visions.  It  was  nearly  twenty  years 
before  they  met  again.  Neither  had  married. 
Her  people  were  dead  and  she  was  living  alone; 
and  to  him  the  world  at  last  had  opened  her 
doors.  She  Was  still  beautiful.  A  gracious,  gen- 
tle lady  she  had  grown;  clothed  with  that  soft 


288  THEY  AND  I 

sweet  dignity  that  Time  bestows  upon  rare  wo- 
men, rendering  them  fairer  with  the  years. 

"  To  the  man  it  seemed  a  miracle.  The  dream 
of  those  early  days  came  back  to  him.  Surely 
there  was  nothing  now  to  separate  them.  Noth- 
ing had  changed  but  the  years,  bringing  to  them 
both  wider  sympathies,  calmer,  more  enduring 
emotions.  She  welcomed  him  again  with  the  old 
kind  smile,  a  warmer  pressure  of  the  hand;  and, 
allowing  a  little  time  to  pass  for  courtesy's  sake, 
he  told  her  what  was  the  truth :  that  he  had  never 
ceased  to  love  her,  never  ceased  to  keep  the  vision 
of  her  fair  pure  face  before  him,  his  ideal  of  all 
that  man  could  find  of  help  in  womanhood.  And 
her  answer,  until  years  later  he  read  the  explana- 
tion, remained  a  mystery  to  him.  She  told  him 
that  she  loved  him,  that  she  had  never  loved  any 
other  man  and  never  should;  that  his  love,  for 
so  long  as  he  chose  to  give  it  to  her,  she  should 
always  prize  as  the  greatest  gift  of  her  life.  But 
with  that  she  prayed  him  to  remain  content. 

11  He  thought  perhaps  it  was  a  touch  of  wo- 
man's pride,  of  hurt  dignity  that  he  had  kept 
silent  so  long,  not  trusting  her;  that  perhaps  as 
time  went  by  she  would  change  her  mind.     But 


THEY  AND  I  289 

she  never  did;  and  after  a  while,  finding  that  his 
persistence  only  pained  her,  he  accepted  the  situ- 
ation. She  was  not  the  type  of  woman  about 
whom  people  talk  scandal,  nor  would  it  have 
troubled  her  much  had  they  done  so.  Able  now 
to  work  where  he  would,  he  took  a  house  in  a 
neighbouring  village,  where  for  the  best  part  of 
the  year  he  lived,  near  to  her.  And  to  the  end 
they  remained  lovers." 

11 1  think  I  understand,"  said  Robina.  "  I  will 
tell  you  afterwards  if  I  am  wrong." 

"  I  told  the  story  to  a  woman  many  years  ago," 
I  said,  "  and  she  also  thought  she  understood. 
But  she  was  only  half  right." 

11  We  will  see,"  said  Robina.     "  Go  on." 

11  She  left  a  letter,  to  be  given  to  him  after  her 
death,  in  case  he  survived  her;  if  not,  to  be 
burned  unopened.  In  it  she  told  him  her  reason, 
or  rather  her  reasons,  for  having  refused  him.  It 
was  an  odd  letter.  The  '  reasons '  sounded  so 
pitiably  insufficient.  Until  one  took  the  pains  to 
examine  them  in  the  cold  light  of  experience. 
And  then  her  letter  struck  one,  not  as  foolish, 
but  as  one  of  the  grimmest  commentaries  upon 
marriage  that  perhaps  had  ever  been  penned. 


290  THEY  AND  I 

"It  was  because  she  had  wished  always  to 
remain  his  ideal;  to  keep  their  love  for  one  an- 
other to  the  end,  untarnished;  to  be  his  true  help- 
meet in  all  things,  that  she  had  refused  to  marry 
him. 

"  Had  he  spoken  that  morning  she  had  waited 
for  him  in  the  lane — she  had  half  hoped,  half 
feared  it — she  might  have  given  her  promise: 
1  For  Youth,'  so  she  wrote,  '  always  dreams  it 
can  find  a  new  way.'  She  thanked  God  that  he 
had  not. 

"  '  Sooner  or  later,'  so  ran  the  letter, c  you  would 
have  learned,  Dear,  that  I  was  neither  saint  nor 
angel;  but  just  a  woman — such  a  tiresome,  incon- 
sistent creature;  she  would  have  exasperated  you 
— full  of  a  thousand  follies  and  irritabilities  that 
would  have  marred  for  you  all  that  was  good  in 
her.  I  wanted  you  to  have  of  me  only  what  was 
worthy,  and  this  seemed  the  only  way.  Counting 
the  hours  to  your  coming,  hating  the  pain  of  your 
going,  I  could  always  give  to  you  my  best.  The 
ugly  words,  the  whims  and  frets  that  poison 
speech — they  could  wait;  it  was  my  lover's  hour. 

" '  And  you,  Dear,  were  always  so  tender,  so 
gay.     You  brought  me  joy  with  both  your  hands. 


THEY  AND  I  291 

Would  it  have  been  the  same,  had  you  been  my 
husband?  How  could  it?  There  were  times, 
even  as  it  was,  when  you  vexed  me.  Forgive  me, 
Dear,  I  mean  it  was  my  fault — ways  of  thought 
and  action  that  did  not  fit  in  with  my  ways,  that 
I  was  not  large-minded  enough  to  pass  over.  As 
my  lover,  they  were  but  as  spots  upon  the  sun. 
It  was  easy  to  control  the  momentary  irritation 
that  they  caused  me.  Time  was  too  precious  for 
even  a  moment  of  estrangement.  As  my  husband, 
the  jarring  note  would  have  been  continuous, 
would  have  widened  into  discord.  You  see,  Dear, 
I  was  not  great  enough  to  love  all  of  you.  I 
remember,  as  a  child,  how  indignant  I  always  felt 
with  God  when  my  nurse  told  me  He  would  not 
love  me  because  I  was  naughty,  that  He  only 
loved  good  children.  It  seemed  such  a  poor  sort 
of  love,  that.  Yet  that  is  precisely  how  we  men 
and  women  do  love;  taking  only  what  gives  us 
pleasure,  repaying  the  rest  with  anger.  There 
would  have  arisen  the  unkind  words  that  can  never 
be  recalled;  the  ugly  silences;  the  gradual  with- 
drawing from  one  another.  I  dared  not  face  it. 
" '  It  was  not  all  selfishness.  Truthfully  I  can 
say  I  thought  more  of  you  than  of  myself.     I 


292  THEY  AND  I 

wanted  to  keep  the  shadows  of  life  away  from 
you.  We  men  and  women  are  like  the  flowers. 
It  is  in  sunshine  that  we  come  to  our  best.  You 
were  my  hero.  I  wanted  you  to  be  great.  I 
wanted  you  to  be  surrounded  by  lovely  dreams. 
I  wanted  your  love  to  be  a  thing  holy,  helpful 
to  you.' 

"  It  was  a  long  letter.  I  have  given  you  the 
gist  of  it." 

Again  there  was  a  silence  between  us. 

"You  think  she  did  right?"  asked  Robina. 

"I  cannot  say,"  I  answered;  "there  are  no 
rules  for  Life,  only  for  the  individual." 

"  I  have  read  it  somewhere,"  said  Robina — 
"where  was  it? — 4  Love  suffers  all  things,  and 
rejoices.'  " 

"  Maybe  in  old  Thomas  a  Kempis.  I  am  not 
sure,"  I  said. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Robina,  "  that  the  ex- 
planation lies  in  that  one  sentence  of  hers :  '  I  was 
not  great  enough  to  love  all  of  you.' " 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  I  said,  "  that  the  whole  art 
of  marriage  is  the  art  of  getting  on  with  the 
other  fellow.  It  means  patience,  self-control,  for- 
bearance.    It  means  the  laying  aside  of  our  self- 


THEY  AND  I  293 

conceit  and  admitting  to  ourselves  that,  judged 
by  eyes  less  partial  than  our  own,  there  may  be 
much  in  us  that  is  objectionable,  that  calls  for 
alteration.  It  means  toleration  for  views  and 
opinions  diametrically  opposed  to  our  most  cher- 
ished convictions.  It  means,  of  necessity,  the 
abandonment  of  many  habits  and  indulgences 
that  however  trivial  have  grown  to  be  important 
to  us.  It  means  the  shaping  of  our  own  desires 
to  the  needs  of  others;  the  acceptance  often  of 
surroundings  and  conditions  personally  distasteful 
to  us.  It  means  affection  deep  and  strong  enough 
to  bear  away  the  ugly  things  of  life — its  quarrels, 
wrongs,  misunderstandings — swiftly  and  silently 
into  the  sea  of  forgetfulness.  It  means  courage, 
good  humour,  common-sense." 

"That  is  what  I  am  saying,"  explained  Robina. 
"  It  means  loving  him  even  when  he's  naughty." 

Dick  came  across  the  fields.     Robina  rose  and 
slipped  into  the  house. 

"  You  are  looking  mighty  solemn,  Dad,"  said 
Dick. 

"Thinking  of  Life,  Dick,"  I  confessed.     "Of 
the  meaning  and  the  explanation  of  it." 

"  Yes,  it's  a  problem,  Life,"  admitted  Dick. 


294  THEY  AND  I 

"A  bit  of  a  teaser,"  I  agreed. 

We  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"  Loving  a  good  woman  must  be  a  tremendous 
help  to  a  man,"  said  Dick. 

He  looked  very  handsome,  very  gallant,  his 
boyish  face  flashing  challenge  to  the  Fates. 

11  Tremendous,  Dick,"  I  agreed. 

Robina  called  to  him  that  his  supper  was  ready. 
He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  followed 
her  into  the  house.  Their  laughing  voices  came 
to  me  broken  through  the  half-closed  doors.  From 
the  night  around  me  rose  a  strange  low  murmur. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  though  above  the  silence  I 
heard  the  far-off  music  of  the  Mills  of  God. 


CHAPTER   XI 

I  fancy  Veronica  is  going  to  be  an  authoress. 
Her  mother  thinks  this  may  account  for  many 
things  about  her  that  have  been  troubling  us.  The 
story  never  got  far.  It  was  laid  aside  for  the 
more  alluring  work  of  play-writing,  and  appar- 
ently forgotten.  I  came  across  the  copy-book 
containing  her  "Rough  Notes"  the  other  day. 
There  is  a  decided  flavour  about  them.  I  tran- 
scribe selections;  the  spelling,  as  before,  being 
my  own. 

"The  scene  is  laid  in  the  Moon.  But  every- 
thing is  just  the  same  as  down  here.  With  one 
exception.  The  children  rule.  The  grown-ups 
do  not  like  it.  But  they  cannot  help  it.  Some- 
thing has  happened  to  them.  They  don't  know 
what.  And  the  world  is  as  it  used  to  be.  In 
the  sweet  old  story  books.  Before  sin  came.  There 
are  fairies  that  dance  o'  nights.  And  witches. 
That  lure  you.  And  then  turn  you  into  things. 
And  a  dragon  who  lives  in  a  cave.  And  springs 
out  at  people.    And  eats  them.    So  that  you  have 

295 


296  THEY  AND  I 

to  be  careful.  And  all  the  animals  talk.  And 
there  are  giants.  And  lots  of  magic.  And  it  is 
the  children  who  know  everything.  And  what 
to  do  for  it.  And  they  have  to  teach  the  grown- 
ups. And  the  grown-ups  don't  believe  half  of  it. 
And  are  far  too  fond  of  arguing.  Which  is  a  sore 
trial  to  the  children.  But  they  have  patience,  and 
are  just. 

"  Of  course  the  grown-ups  have  to  go  to  school. 
They  have  much  to  learn.  Poor  things!  And 
they  hate  it.  They  take  no  interest  in  fairy  lore. 
And  what  would  happen  to  them  if  they  got 
wrecked  on  a  Desert  Island  they  don't  seem  to 
care.  And  then  there  are  languages.  What  they 
will  need  when  they  come  to  be  children.  And 
have  to  talk  to  all  the  animals.  And  magic. 
Which  is  deep.  And  they  hate  it.  And  say  it  is 
rot.  They  are  full  of  tricks.  One  catches  them 
reading  trashy  novels.  Under  the  desk.  All 
about  love.  Which  is  wasting  their  children's 
money.  And  God  knows  it  is  hard  enough  to 
earn.  But  the  children  are  not  angry  with  them. 
Remembering  how  they  felt  themselves.  When 
they  were  grown  up.    Only  firm. 

"The  children  give  them  plenty  of  holidays. 


THEY  AND  I  297 

Because  holidays  are  good  for  every  one.  They 
freshen  you  up.  But  the  grown-ups  are  very 
stupid.  And  do  not  care  for  sensible  games.  Such 
as  Indians.  And  Pirates.  What  would  sharpen 
their  faculties.  And  so  fit  them  for  the  future. 
They  only  care  to  play  with  a  ball.  Which  is  of 
no  help.  To  the  stern  realities  of  life.  Or  talk. 
Lord,  how  they  talk! 

"  There  is  one  grown-up.  Who  is  very  clever. 
He  can  talk  about  everything.  But  it  leads  to 
nothing.  He  spoils  the  party.  So  they  send  him 
to  bed.  And  there  are  two  grown-ups.  A  male 
and  a  female.  And  they  talk  love.  All  the  time. 
Even  on  fine  days.  Which  is  maudlin.  But  the 
children  are  patient  with  them.  Knowing  it  takes 
all  sorts.  To  make  a  world.  And  trusting  they 
will  grow  out  of  it.  And  of  course  there 
are  grown-ups  who  are  good.  And  a  comfort  to 
their  children. 

"And  everything  the  children  like  is  good. 
And  wholesome.  And  everything  the  grown-ups 
like  is  bad  for  them.  And  they  mustn't  have  it. 
They  clamour  for  tea  and  coffee.  What  under- 
mines their  nervous  system.  And  waste  their 
money   in   the   tuck   shop.      Upon   chops.     And 


298  THEY  AND  I 

turtle  soup.  And  the  children  have  to  put  them 
to  bed.  And  give  them  pills.  Till  they  feel 
better. 

11  There  is  a  little  girl  named  Prue.  Who  lives 
with  a  little  boy  named  Simon.  They  mean  well. 
But  haven't  much  sense.  They  have  two  grown- 
ups. A  male  and  a  female.  Named  Peter  and 
Martha.  Respectively.  They  are  just  the  ordi- 
nary grown-ups.  Neither  better  nor  worse.  And 
much  might  be  done  with  them.  By  kindness. 
But  Prue  and  Simon  go  the  wrong  way  to  work. 
It  is  blame,  blame  all  day  long.  But  as  for  praise. 
Oh,  never! 

"  One  summer's  day  Prue  and  Simon  take  Peter 
for  a  walk.  In  the  country.  And  they  meet  a 
cow.  And  they  think  this  a  good  opportunity. 
To  test  Peter's  knowledge.  Of  languages.  So 
they  tell  him  to  talk  to  the  cow.  And  he  talks  to 
the  cow.  And  the  cow  don't  understand  him.  And 
he  don't  understand  the  cow.  And  they  are  mad 
with  him.  '  What's  the  use,'  they  say,  '  of  our  pay- 
ing expensive  fees.  To  have  you  taught  the  lan- 
guage. By  a  first-class  cow.  And  when  you  come 
out  into  the  country.  You  can't  talk  it.'  And 
he  says  he  did  talk  it.     But  they  will  not  listen 


THEY  AND  I  299 

to  him.  But  go  on  raving.  And  in  the  end  it 
turns  out.  //  was  a  Jersey  cow!  What  talked  a 
dialect.  So  of  course  he  couldn't  understand  it. 
But  did  they  apologise?    Oh,  dear,  no. 

"Another  time.  One  morning  at  breakfast. 
Martha  didn't  like  her  raspberry  vinegar.  So  she 
didn't  drink  it.  And  Simon  came  into  the  nurs- 
ery. And  he  saw  that  Martha  hadn't  drunk  her 
raspberry  vinegar.  And  he  asked  her  why.  And 
she  said  she  didn't  like  it.  Because  it  was  nasty. 
And  he  said  it  wasn't  nasty.  And  that  she  ought 
to  like  it.  And  how  it  was  shocking.  The  way 
grown-ups  nowadays  grumbled.  At  good  whole- 
some food.  Provided  for  them  by  their  too-in- 
dulgent children.  And  how  when  he  was  a  grown- 
up. He  would  never  have  dared.  And  so  on. 
All  in  the  usual  style.  And  to  prove  it  wasn't 
nasty.  He  poured  himself  out  a  cupful.  And 
drank  it  off.  In  a  gulp.  And  he  said  it  was  de- 
licious.    And  turned  pale.     And  left  the  room. 

"And  Prue  came  into  the  nursery.  And  she 
saw  that  Martha  hadn't  drunk  her  raspberry  vin- 
egar. And  she  asked  her  why.  And  Martha 
told  her  how  she  didn't  like  it.  Because  it  was 
nasty.  And  Prue  told  her  she  ought  to  be  ashamed 


3oo  THEY  AND  I 

of  herself.  For  not  liking  it.  Because  it  was 
good  for  her.  And  really  very  nice.  And  any- 
how she'd  got  to  like  it.  And  not  get  stuffing  her- 
self up  with  messy  tea  and  coffee.  Because  she 
wouldn't  have  it.  And  there  was  an  end  of  it. 
And  so  on.  And  to  prove  it  was  all  right.  She 
poured  herself  out  a  cupful.  And  drank  it  off. 
In  a  gulp.  And  she  said  there  was  nothing  wrong 
with  it.  Nothing  whatever.  And  turned  pale. 
And  left  the  room. 

"  And  it  wasn't  raspberry  vinegar.  But  just 
red  ink.  What  had  got  put  into  the  raspberry 
vinegar  decanter.  By  an  oversight.  And  they 
needn't  have  been  ill  at  all.  //  only  they  had 
listened.  To  poor  old  Martha.  But  no.  That 
was  their  fixed  idea.  That  grown-ups  hadn't  any 
sense.  At  all.  What  is  a  mistake.  As  one  per- 
ceives." 

Other  characters  had  been  sketched,  some  of 
them  to  be  abandoned  after  a  few  bold  touches: 
the  difficulty  of  avoiding  too  close  a  portraiture 
to  the  living  original  having  apparently  proved 
irksome.  Against  one  such,  evidently  an  attempt 
to  help  Dick  see  himself  in  his  true  colours,  I 
find  this  marginal  note  in  pencil:  "Better  not. 


THEY  AND  I  301 

Might  make  him  ratty."  Opposite  to  another — 
obviously  of  Mrs.  St.  Leonard,  and  with  instinct 
for  alliteration — is  scribbled:  "Too  terribly  true. 
She'd  twig  it." 

Another  character  is  that  of  a  gent:  "With  a 
certain  gift.  For  telling  stories.  Some  of  them 
not  bad."  A  promising  party,  on  the  whole.  In- 
deed, one  might  say,  judging  from  description,  a 
quite  rational  person :  "  When  not  on  the  rantan. 
But  inconsistent."  He  is  the  grown-up  of  a  little 
girl:  "Not  beautiful.  But  strangely  attractive. 
Whom  we  will  call  Enid."  One  gathers  that  if 
all  the  children  had  been  Enids,  then  surely  the 
last  word  in  worlds  had  been  said.  She  has  only 
this  one  grown-up  of  her  very  own ;  but  she  makes 
it  her  business  to  adopt  and  reform  all  the  incor- 
rigible old  folk  the  other  children  have  despaired 
of.  It  is  all  done  by  kindness.  "  She  is  ever 
patient.  And  just."  Prominent  among  her  numer- 
ous protegees  is  a  military  man,  an  elderly 
colonel;  until  she  took  him  in  hand,  the  awful 
example  of  what  a  grown-up  might  easily  become, 
left  to  the  care  of  incompetent  infants.  He  defies 
his  own  child,  a  virtuous  youth,  but  "  Lacking 
in  sympathy";  is  rude  to  his  little  nephews  and 


302  THEY  AND  I 

nieces;  a  holy  terror  to  his  governess.  He  uses 
wicked  words,  picked  up  from  retired  pirates. 
"  Of  course  without  understanding.  Their  terri- 
ble significance."  He  steals  the  Indian's  fire- 
water. "What  few  can  partake  of.  With  im- 
punity." Certainly  not  the  Colonel.  "  Can  this 
be  he!  This  gibbering  wreck!  "  He  hides  cigars 
in  a  hollow  tree,  and  smokes  on  the  sly.  He  plays 
truant.  Lures  other  old  gentlemen  away  from 
their  lessons  to  join  him.  They  are  discovered  in 
the  woods,  in  a  cave,  playing  whist  for  sixpenny 
points. 

Does  Enid  storm  and  bullyrag;  threaten  that  if 
ever  she  catches  him  so  much  as  looking  at  a  card 
again  she  will  go  straight  out  and  tell  the  dragon, 
who  will  in  his  turn  be  so  shocked  that  in  all 
probability  he  will  decide  on  coming  back  with 
her  to  kill  and  eat  the  Colonel  on  the  spot?  No. 
"  Such  are  not  her  methods."  Instead  she  smiles: 
"Indulgently."  She  says  it  is  only  natural  for 
grown-ups  to  like  playing  cards.  She  is  not  angry 
with  him.  And  there  is  no  need  for  him  to  run 
away  and  hide  in  a  nasty  damp  cave.  "  She  her- 
self will  play  whist  with  him."  The  effect  upon 
the   Colonel   is  immediate:   he  bursts   into  tears. 


THEY  AND  I  303 

She  plays  whist  with  him  in  the  garden:  "After 
school  hours.  When  he  has  been  good."  Double 
dummy,  one  presumes.  One  leaves  the  Colonel, 
in  the  end,  cured  of  his  passion  for  whist. 
Whether  as  the  consequence  of  her  play  or  her 
influence  the  "  Rough  Notes  "  give  no  indication. 
In  the  play,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  Veronica 
received  assistance.  The  house  had  got  itself  fin- 
ished early  in  September.  Young  Bute  has  cer- 
tainly done  wonders.  We  performed  it  in  the 
empty  billiard-room,  followed  by  a  one-act  piece 
of  my  own.  The  occasion  did  duty  as  a  house- 
warming.  We  had  quite  a  crowd,  and  ended  up 
with  a  dance.  Everybody  seemed  to  enjoy  them- 
selves, except  young  Bertie  St.  Leonard,  who 
played  the  Prince,  and  could  not  get  out  of  his 
helmet  in  time  for  supper.  It  was  a  good  helmet, 
but  had  been  fastened  clumsily;  and  inexperienced 
people  trying  to  help  had  only  succeeded  in  jamb- 
ing  all  the  screws.  Not  only  wouldn't  it  come  off, 
it  would  not  even  open  for  a  drink.  All  thought 
it  an  excellent  joke,  with  the  exception  of  young 
Herbert  St.  Leonard.  Our  Mayor,  a  cheerful 
little  man  and  very  popular,  said  that  it  ought  to 
be  sent  to  Punch.     The  local  reporter  reminded 


304  THEY  AND  I 

him  that  the  late  John  Leech  had  already  made 
use  of  precisely  the  same  incident  for  a  comic 
illustration,  afterwards  remembering  that  it  was 
not  Leech,  but  the  late  Phil  May.  He  seemed 
to  think  this  ended  the  matter.  St.  Leonard  and 
the  Vicar,  who  are  rival  authorities  upon  the  sub- 
ject, fell  into  an  argument  upon  armour  in  gen- 
eral, with  special  reference  to  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury. Each  used  the  boy's  head  to  confirm  his 
own  theory,  passing  it  triumphantly  from  one  to 
the  other.  We  had  to  send  off  young  Hopkins  in 
the  donkey-cart  for  the  blacksmith.  I  have  found 
out,  by  the  way,  how  it  is  young  Hopkins  makes 
our  donkey  go.  Young  Hopkins  argues  it  is  far 
less  brutal  than  whacking  him,  especially  after  ex- 
perience has  proved  that  he  evidently  does  not 
know  why  you  are  whacking  him.  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  the  boy  is  not  right. 

Janie  played  the  Fairy  Godmamma  in  a  white 
wig  and  panniers.  She  will  make  a  beautiful  old 
lady.  The  white  hair  gives  her  the  one  thing 
that  she  lacks :  distinction.  I  found  myself  glanc- 
ing apprehensively  round  the  room  wishing  we 
had  not  invited  so  many  eligible  bachelors.  Dick 
is  making  me  anxious.     The  sense  of  his  own  un- 


THEY  AND  I  305 

worthiness,  which  has  come  to  him  quite  suddenly, 
and  apparently  with  all  the  shock  of  a  new  discov- 
ery, has  completely  unnerved  him.    It  is  a  healthy 
sentiment,  and  does  him  good.    But  I  do  not  want 
it  carried  to  the  length  of  losing  her.  The  thought 
of  what  he  might  one  day  bring  home  has  been  a 
nightmare  to  me  ever  since  he  left  school.    I  sup- 
pose it  is  to  most  fathers.    Especially  if  one  thinks 
of  the  women  one  loved  oneself  when  in  the  early 
twenties.     A  large  pale-faced  girl,  who  served  in 
a  bun-shop  in  the  Strand,  is  the  first  I  can  recol- 
lect.    How  I  trembled  when  by  chance  her  hand 
touched  mine !     I  cannot  recall  a  single  attraction 
about  her  except  her  size,  yet  for  nearly  six  months 
I  lunched  off  pastry  and  mineral  waters  merely  to 
be  near  her.    To  this  very  day  an  attack  of  indi- 
gestion will  always  create  her  image  in  my  mind. 
Another  was  a  thin,  sallow  girl,  but  with  magnifi- 
cent eyes,  I  met  one  afternoon  in  the  South  Ken- 
sington Museum.     She  was  a  brainless,  vixenish 
girl,  but  the  memory  of  her  eyes  would  always 
draw  me  back  to  her.     More  than  two-thirds  of 
our  time  together  we  spent  in  violent  quarrels; 
and  all  my  hopes  of  eternity  I  would  have  given 
to  make  her  my   companion   for  life.      But   for 


306  THEY  AND  I 

Luck,  in  the  shape  of  a  well-to-do  cab  proprietor, 
as  great  an  idiot  as  myself,  I  might  have  done  it. 
The  third  was  a  chorus  girl :  on  the  whole,  the  best 
of  the  bunch.  Her  father  was  a  coachman,  and 
she  had  ten  brothers  and  sisters,  most  of  them  do- 
ing well  in  the  service.  And  she  was  succeeded — 
if  I  have  the  order  correct — by  the  ex-wife  of  a 
solicitor,  a  sprightly  lady;  according  to  her  own 
account  the  victim  of  complicated  injustice.  I  dare 
say  there  were  others,  if  I  took  the  time  to  think; 
but  not  one  of  them  can  I  remember  without  re- 
turning thanks  to  Providence  for  having  lost  her. 
What  is  one  to  do?  There  are  days  in  springtime 
when  a  young  man  ought  not  to  be  allowed  outside 
the  house.  Thank  Heaven  and  Convention  it  is 
not  the  girls  who  propose!  Few  women,  who 
would  choose  the  right  moment  to  put  their  hands 
upon  a  young  man's  shoulders,  and,  looking  into 
his  eyes,  ask  him  to  marry  them  next  week,  would 
receive  No  for  an  answer.  It  is  only  our  shyness 
that  saves  us.  A  wise  friend  of  mine,  who  has 
observed  much,  would  have  all  those  marrying 
under  five-and-twenty  divorced  by  automatic 
effluxion  of  time  at  forty,  leaving  a  few  who  had 
chosen  satisfactorily  to  be  reunited  if  they  wished: 


THEY  AND  I  307 

his  argument  being  that  to  condemn  grown  men 
and  women  to  abide  by  the  choice  of  inexperienced 
boys  and  girls  is  unjust  and  absurd.  There  were 
nice  girls  I  could  have  fallen  in  love  with.  They 
never  occurred  to  me.  It  would  seem  as  if  a 
man  had  to  learn  taste  in  women  as  in  all  other 
things,  namely,  by  education.  Here  and  there 
may  exist  the  born  connoisseur.  But  with  most  of 
us  our  first  instincts  are  towards  vulgarity.  It  is 
Barrie,  I  think,  who  says  that  if  only  there  were 
silly  women  enough  to  go  round,  good  women 
would  never  get  a  look  in.  It  is  certainly  remark- 
able, the  number  of  sweet  old  maids  one  meets. 
Almost  as  remarkable  as  the  number  of  stupid, 
cross-grained  wives.  As  I  tell  Dick,  I  have  no 
desire  for  a  daughter-in-law  of  whom  he  feels 
himself  worthy.  If  he  can't  do  better  than  that 
he  had  best  remain  single.  Janie  and  he,  if  I 
know  anything  of  life,  are  just  suited  for  one  an- 
other. Helpful  people  take  their  happiness  in 
helping.  I  knew  just  such  another,  once :  a  sweet, 
industrious,  sensible  girl.  She  made  the  mistake 
of  marrying  a  thoroughly  good  man.  There  was 
nothing  for  her  to  do.  She  ended  by  losing  all  in- 
terest in  him,  devoting  herself  to  a  Home  in  the 


3o8  THEY  AND  I 

East  End  for  the  reformation  of  newsboys.  It 
was  a  pitiful  waste :  so  many  women  would  have 
been  glad  of  him;  while  to  the  ordinary  sinful 
man  she  would  have  been  a  life-long  comfort.  I 
must  have  a  serious  talk  to  Dick.  I  shall  point 
out  what  a  good  thing  it  will  be  for  her.  I  can 
see  Dick  keeping  her  busy  and  contented  for  the 
rest  of  her  days. 

Veronica  played  the  Princess,  with  little  boy 
Foy — "  Sir  Robert  of  the  Curse "  as  her  page. 
Anything  more  dignified  has,  I  should  say,  rarely 
been  seen  upon  the  English  stage.  Among  her 
wedding  presents  were:  Two  Votes  for  Women, 
presented  by  the  local  fire  brigade;  a  Flying  Ma- 
chine of  "  proved  stability.  Might  be  used  as  a 
bathing  tent";  a  National  Theatre,  "with  Cold 
Water  Douche  in  Basement  for  reception  of  Eng- 
lish Dramatists  " ;  Recipe  for  building  a  Navy, 
without  paying  for  it,  "  Gift  of  that  great  Finan- 
cial Expert,  Sir  Hocus  Pocus  " ;  one  Conscientious 
Income  Taxpayer,  "  has  been  driven  by  a  Lady  " ; 
two  Socialists  in  agreement  as  to  what  it  means, 
"  smaller  one  slightly  damaged  " ;  one  Contented 
Farmer,  "Babylonian  Period";  and  one  extra- 
sized  bottle,  "Solution  of  the  Servant  Problem." 


THEY  AND  I  309 

Dick  played  the  "  Dragon  without  a  Tail." 
We  had  to  make  him  without  a  tail  owing  to  the 
smallness  of  the  stage.  He  had  once  had  a  tail. 
But  that  was  a  long  story:  added  to  which  there 
was  not  time  to  tell  it.  Little  Sallie  St.  Leonard 
played  his  wife,  and  Robina  was  his  mother-in- 
law.  So  much  depends  upon  one's  mood.  What 
an  ocean  of  boredom  might  be  saved  if  science 
could  but  give  us  a  barometer  foretelling  us  our 
changes  of  temperament!  How  much  more  to 
our  comfort  we  could  plan  our  lives,  knowing  that 
on  Monday,  say,  we  should  be  feeling  frivolous; 
on  Saturday  "  dull  to  bad-tempered." 

I  took  a  man  once  to  see  The  Private  Secretary. 
I  began  by  enjoying  myself,  and  ended  by  feeling 
ashamed  of  myself  and  vexed  with  the  scheme  of 
creation.  That  authors  should  write  such  plays, 
that  actors  should  be  willing  to  degrade  our  com- 
mon nature  by  appearing  in  them  was  explainable, 
he  supposed,  by  the  law  of  supply  and  demand. 
What  he  could  not  understand  was  how  the  pub- 
lic could  contrive  to  extract  amusement  from  them. 
What  was  there  funny  in  seeing  a  poor  gentle- 
man shut  up  in  a  box?  Why  should  everybody 
roar  with  laughter  when  he  asked   for  a  bun? 


310  THEY  AND  I 

People  asked  for  buns  every  day — people  in  rail- 
way refreshment  rooms,  in  aerated  bread  shops. 
Where  was  the  joke?  A  month  later  I  found 
myself  by  chance  occupying  a  seat  just  behind  him 
at  the  pantomime.  The  low  comedian  was  bath- 
ing a  baby,  and  tears  of  merriment  were  rolling 
down  his  cheeks.  To  me  the  whole  business 
seemed  painful  and  revolting.  We  were  being 
asked  to  find  delight  in  the  spectacle  of  a  father 
scouring  down  an  infant  of  tender  years  with  a 
scrubbing  brush.  How  women — many  of  them 
mothers — could  remain  through  such  an  exhibi- 
tion without  rising  in  protest  appeared  to  me  an 
argument  against  female  suffrage.  A  lady  en- 
tered, the  wife,  so  the  programme  informed  me, 
of  a  Baron !  All  I  can  say  is  that  a  more  vulgar, 
less  prepossessing  female  I  never  wish  to  meet.  I 
even  doubted  her  sobriety.  She  sat  down  plump 
upon  the  baby.  She  must  have  been  a  woman  ris- 
ing sixteen  stone,  and  for  one  minute  fifteen  sec- 
onds by  my  watch  the  whole  house  rocked  with 
laughter.  That  the  thing  was  only  a  stage  prop- 
erty I  felt  was  no  excuse.  The  humour — heaven 
save  the  mark! — lay  in  the  supposition  that  what 
we  were  witnessing  was  the  agony  and  death — for 


THEY  AND  I  311 

no  child  could  have  survived  that  woman's  weight 
— of  a  real  baby.  Had  I  been  able  to  tap  myself 
beforehand  I  should  have  learned  that  on  that 
particular  Saturday  I  was  going  to  be  "  set- 
serious."  Instead  of  booking  a  seat  for  the  pan- 
tomime I  should  have  gone  to  a  lecture  on  Egyp- 
tian pottery  which  was  being  given  by  a  friend  of 
mine  at  the  London  Library,  and  have  had  a  good 
time. 

Children  could  tap  their  parents,  warn  each 
other  that  father  was  "  going  down  " ;  that  mother 
next  week  was  likely  to  be  "  gusty."  Children 
themselves  might  hang  out  their  little  barometers. 
I  remember  a  rainy  day  in  a  country  house  during 
the  Christmas  holidays.  We  had  among  us  a 
Member  of  Parliament:  a  man  of  sunny  disposi- 
tion, extremely  fond  of  children.  He  said  it  was 
awfully  hard  lines  on  the  little  beggars  cooped  up 
in  a  nursery;  and  borrowing  his  host's  motor- 
coat,  pretended  he  was  a  bear.  He  plodded  round 
on  his  hands  and  knees  and  growled  a  good  deal, 
and  the  children  sat  on  the  sofa  and  watched  him. 
But  they  didn't  seem  to  be  enjoying  it,  not  much; 
and  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  he  noticed 
this  himself.    He  thought  it  was,  maybe,  that  they 


3 12  THEY  AND  I 

were  tired  of  bears,  and  fancied  that  a  whale 
might  rouse  them.  He  turned  the  table  upside 
down  and  placed  the  children  in  it  on  three  chairs, 
explaining  to  them  that  they  were  shipwrecked 
sailors  on  a  raft,  and  that  they  must  be  careful  the 
whale  did  not  get  underneath  it  and  upset  them. 
He  draped  a  sheet  over  the  towel-horse  to  repre- 
sent an  iceberg,  and  rolled  himself  up  in  a  mack- 
intosh and  flopped  about  the  floor  on  his  stomach, 
butting  his  head  occasionally  against  the  table  in 
order  to  suggest  to  them  their  danger.  The  atti- 
tude of  the  children  still  remained  that  of  polite 
spectators.  True,  the  youngest  boy  did  make  the 
suggestion  of  borrowing  the  kitchen  toasting-fork, 
and  employing  it  as  a  harpoon;  but  even  this  ap- 
peared to  be  the  outcome  rather  of  a  desire  to 
please  than  of  any  warmer  interest;  and,  the 
whale  objecting,  the  idea  fell  through.  After  that 
he  climbed  up  on  the  dresser  and  announced  to 
them  that  he  was  an  orang-outang.  They  watched 
him  break  a  soup-tureen,  and  then  the  eldest  boy, 
stepping  out  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  held 
up  his  arm,  and  the  Member  of  Parliament,  some- 
what surprised,  sat  down  on  the  dresser  and  lis- 
tened. 


THEY  AND  I  313 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  the  eldest  boy,  "  we're  aw- 
fully sorry.  It's  awfully  good  of  you,  sir.  But 
somehow  we're  not  feeling  in  the  mood  for  wild 
beasts  this  afternoon." 

The  Member  of  Parliament  brought  them 
down  into  the  drawing-room,  where  we  had  music; 
and  the  children,  at  their  own  request,  were  al- 
lowed to  sing  hymns.  The  next  day  they  came  of 
their  own  accord,  and  asked  the  Member  of  Par- 
liament to  play  at  beasts  with  them;  but  it  seemed 
he  had  letters  to  write. 

There  are  times  when  jokes  about  mothers-in- 
law  strike  me  as  lacking  both  in  taste  and  fresh- 
ness. On  this  particular  evening  they  came  to 
me  bringing  with  them  all  the  fragrance  of  the 
days  that  are  no  more.  The  first  play  I  ever  saw 
dealt  with  the  subject  of  the  mother-in-law — the 
"  Problem  "  I  think  it  was  called  in  those  days. 
The  occasion  was  an  amateur  performance  given 
in  aid  of  the  local  Ragged  School.  A  cousin  of 
mine,  lately  married,  played  the  wife;  and  my 
aunt,  I  remember,  got  up  and  walked  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  second  act.  Robina,  in  spectacles 
and  an  early  Victorian  bonnet,  reminded  me  of 
her.    Young  Bute  played  a  comic  cabman.    It  was 


3i4  THEY  AND  I 

at  the  old  Haymarket,  in  Buckstone's  time,  that  I 
first  met  the  cabman  of  art  and  literature.  Dear 
bibulous,  becoated  creature,  with  ever-wrathful 
outstretched  palm  and  husky  "  'Ere !  Wot's  this?  " 
How  good  it  was  to  see  him  once  again !  I  felt 
I  wanted  to  climb  over  the  footlights  and  shake 
him  by  the  hand.  The  twins  played  a  couple  of 
Young  Turks,  much  concerned  about  their  con- 
stitutions; and  made  quite  a  hit  with  a  topical  duet 
to  the  refrain:  "And  so  you  see  The  reason  he  Is 
not  the  Boss  for  us."  We  all  agreed  it  was  a 
pun  worthy  of  Tom  Hood  himself.  The  Vicar 
thought  he  had  heard  it  before,  but  this  seemed 
improbable.  There  was  a  unanimous  call  for 
Author,  giving  rise  to  sounds  of  discussion  be- 
hind the  curtain.  Eventually  the  whole  company 
appeared,  with  Veronica  in  the  centre.  I  had 
noticed  throughout  that  the  centre  of  the  stage 
appeared  to  be  Veronica's  favourite  spot.  I  can 
see  the  makings  of  a  leading  actress  in  Veronica. 
In  my  own  piece,  which  followed,  Robina  and 
Bute  played  a  young  married  couple  who  do  not 
know  how  to  quarrel.  It  has  always  struck  me 
how  much  more  satisfactorily  people  quarrel  on 
the  stage  than  in  real  life.    On  the  stage  the  man, 


THEY  AND  I  315 

having  made  up  his  mind  to  have  it  out,  enters 
and  closes  the  door.  He  lights  a  cigarette;  if  not 
a  teetotaller  mixes  himself  a  brandy-and-soda.  His 
wife  all  this  time  is  careful  to  remain  silent.  Quite 
evident  it  is  that  he  is  preparing  for  her  benefit 
something  unpleasant,  and  chatter  might  disturb 
him.  To  fill  up  the  time  she  toys  with  a  novel  or 
touches  softly  the  keys  of  the  piano  until  he  is 
quite  comfortable  and  ready  to  begin.  He  glides 
into  his  subject  with  the  studied  calm  of  one  with 
all  the  afternoon  before  him.  She  listens  to  him 
in  rapt  attention.  She  does  not  dream  of  inter- 
rupting him;  would  scorn  the  suggestion  of  chip- 
ping in  with  any  little  notion  of  her  own  likely  to 
disarrange  his  train  of  thought.  All  she  does 
when  he  pauses,  as  occasionally  he  has  to  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  breath,  is  to  come  to  his  assist- 
ance with  short  encouraging  remarks :  such,  for 
instance,  as  "  Well."  "  You  think  that."  "  And 
if  I  did?"  Her  object  seems  to  be  to  help  him 
on.  "  Go  on,"  she  says  from  time  to  time,  bit- 
terly. And  he  goes  on.  Towards  the  end,  when 
he  shows  signs  of  easing  up,  she  puts  it  to  him  as 
one  sportsman  to  another:  Is  he  quite  finished? 
Is  that  all?     Sometimes  it  isn't.     As  often  as  not 


3i6  THEY  AND  I, 

he  has  been  saving  the  pick  of  the  basket  for  the 
last. 

"No,"  he  says,  "that  is  not  all.  There  is 
something  else ! " 

That  is  quite  enough  for  her.  That  is  all  she 
wanted  to  know.  She  merely  asked  in  case  there 
might  be.  As  it  appears  there  is,  she  re-settles 
herself  in  her  chair  and  is  again  all  ears. 

When  it  does  come — when  he  is  quite  sure  there 
is  nothing  he  has  forgotten,  no  little  point  that  he 
has  overlooked,  she  rises. 

"  I  have  listened  patiently,"  she  begins,  "  to  all 
that  you  have  said."  (The  devil  himself  could 
not  deny  this.  "  Patience "  hardly  seems  the 
word.  "Enthusiastically"  she  might  almost  have 
said.)  "Now" — with  rising  inflection — "you 
listen  to  me." 

The  stage  husband — always  the  gentleman — 
bows;  stiffly  maybe,  but  quite  politely;  and  pre- 
pares in  his  turn  to  occupy  the  role  of  dumb  but 
dignified  defendant.  To  emphasise  the  coming 
change  in  their  positions,  the  lady  most  probably 
crosses  over  to  what  has  hitherto  been  his  side  of 
the  stage;  while  he,  starting  at  the  same  moment, 
and  passing  her  about  the  centre,  settles  himself 


THEY  AND  I  317 

down  in  what  must  be  regarded  as  the  listener's 
end  of  the  room.  We  then  have  the  whole  story- 
over  again  from  her  point  of  view;  and  this  time 
it  is  the  gentleman  who  would  bite  off  his  tongue 
rather  than  make  a  retort  calculated  to  put  the 
lady  off. 

In  the  end  it  is  the  party  who  is  in  the  right  that 
conquers.  Off  the  stage  this  is  more  or  less  of  a 
toss-up;  on  the  stage,  never.  If  justice  be  with 
the  husband,  then  it  is  his  voice  that,  gradually 
growing  louder  and  louder,  rings  at  last  triumph- 
ant through  the  house.  The  lady  sees  herself  that 
she  has  been  to  blame,  and  wonders  why  it  did  not 
occur  to  her  before — is  grateful  for  the  revelation, 
and  asks  to  be  forgiven.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  was  the  husband  who  was  at  fault,  then  it  is  the 
lady  who  will  be  found  eventually  occupying  the 
centre  of  the  stage;  the  miserable  husband  who, 
morally  speaking,  will  be  trying  to  get  under  the 
table. 

Now,  in  real  life  things  don't  happen  quite  like 
this.  What  the  quarrel  in  real  life  suffers  from 
is  want  of  system.  There  is  no  order,  no  settled 
plan.  There  is  much  too  much  go-as-you-please 
about  the  quarrel  in  real  life,  and  the  result  is 


3 1 8-  THEY  AND  I, 

naturally  pure  muddle.  The  man,  turning  things 
over  in  the  morning  while  shaving,  makes  up  his 
mind  to  have  this  matter  out  and  have  done  with 
it.  He  knows  exactly  what  he  is  going  to  say. 
He  repeats  it  to  himself  at  intervals  during  the 
day.  He  will  first  say  This,  and  then  he  will  go 
on  to  That;  while  he  is  about  it  he  will  perhaps 
mention  the  Other.  He  reckons  it  will  take  him 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Which  will  just  give  him 
time  to  dress  for  dinner. 

After  it  is  over,  and  he  looks  at  his  watch,  he 
finds  it  has  taken  him  longer  than  that.  Added 
to  which  he  has  said  next  to  nothing — next  to 
nothing,  that  is,  of  what  he  meant  to  say.  It 
went  wrong  from  the  very  start.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  there  wasn't  any  start.  He  entered  the 
room  and  closed  the  door.  That  is  as  far  as  he 
got.  The  cigarette  he  never  even  lighted.  There 
ought  to  have  been  a  box  of  matches  on  the  man- 
telpiece behind  the  photo-frame.  And  of  course 
there  were  none  there.  For  her  to  fly  into  a  tem- 
per merely  because  he  reminded  her  that  he  had 
spoken  about  this  very  matter  at  least  a  hundred 
times  before,  and  accuse  him  of  going  about  his 
own  house  "  stealing  "  his  own  matches  was  posi- 


THEY  AND  I  319 

tively  laughable.  They  had  quarrelled  for  about 
five  minutes  over  those  wretched  matches,  and 
then  for  another  ten  because  he  said  that  women 
had  no  sense  of  humour,  and  she  wanted  to  know 
how  he  knew.  After  that  there  had  cropped  up 
the  last  quarter's  gas-bill,  and  that  by  a  process 
still  mysterious  to  him  had  led  them  into  the  sub- 
ject of  his  behaviour  on  the  night  of  the  Hockey 
Club  dance.  By  an  effort  of  almost  supernatural 
self-control  he  had  contrived  at  length  to  introduce 
the  subject  he  had  come  home  half  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual  on  purpose  to  discuss.  It  didn't  in- 
terest her  in  the  least.  What  she  was  full  of  by 
this  time  was  a  girl  named  Arabella  Jones.  She 
got  in  quite  a  lot  while  he  was  vainly  trying  to  re- 
member where  he  had  last  seen  the  damned  girl. 
He  had  just  succeeded  in  getting  back  to  his  own 
topic  when  the  Cuddiford  girl  from  next  door 
dashed  in  without  a  hat  to  borrow  a  tuning-fork. 
It  had  been  quite  a  business  finding  the  tuning- 
fork,  and  when  she  was  gone  they  had  to  begin  all 
over  again.  They  had  quarrelled  about  the  draw- 
ing-room carpet;  about  his  sister  Florrie's  birth- 
day present;  and  the  way  he  drove  the  motor-car. 
It  had  taken  them  over  an  hour  and  a  half,  and 


320  THEY  AND  I 

rather  than  waste  the  tickets  for  the  theatre,  they 
had  gone  without  their  dinner.  The  matter 
of  the  cold  chisel  still  remained  to  be  thrashed 
out. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  through  the  medium 
of  the  drama  I  might  show  how  the  domestic 
quarrel  could  so  easily  be  improved.  Adolphus 
Goodbody,  a  worthy  young  man  deeply  attached 
to  his  wife,  feels  nevertheless  that  the  dinners  she 
is  inflicting  upon  him  are  threatening  with  perma- 
nent damage  his  digestive  system.  He  determines, 
come  what  may,  to  insist  upon  a  change.  Alvira 
Goodbody,  a  charming  girl,  admiring  and  devoted 
to  her  husband,  is  notwithstanding  a  trifle  en  tete, 
especially  when  her  domestic  arrangements  hap- 
pen to  be  the  theme  of  discussion.  Adolphus,  his 
courage  screwed  to  the  sticking-point,  broaches 
the  difficult  subject;  and  for  the  first  half  of  the  act 
my  aim  was  to  picture  the  progress  of  the  human 
quarrel,  not  as  it  should  be,  but  as  it  is.  They 
never  reach  the  cook.  The  first  mention  of  the 
word  "dinner"  reminds  Elvira  (quick  to  per- 
ceive that  argument  is  brewing,  and  alive  to  the 
advantage  of  getting  in  first)  that  twice  the  month 
before  he  had  dined  out,   not  returning  till  the 


THEY  AND  I  321 

small  hours  of  the  morning.    What  she  wants  to 
know  is  where  this  sort  of  thing  is  going  to  end? 
If  the  purpose  of  Freemasonry  is  the  ruin  of  the 
home  and  the  desertion  of  women,  then  all  she  has 
to   say — it   turns   out  to  be   quite   a   good   deal. 
Adolphus,  when  able  to  get  in  a  word,  suggests 
that  eleven  o'clock  at  the  latest  can  hardly  be 
described  as  the  "small  hours  of  the  morning"; 
the  fault  with  women  is  that  they  never  will  con- 
fine themselves  to  the  simple  truth.     From  that 
point  onwards,  as  can  be  imagined,  the  scene  al- 
most wrote  itself.    They  have  passed  through  all 
the  customary  stages,  and  are  planning,  with  ex- 
aggerated calm,  arrangements  for  the  separation 
which  each  now  feels  to  be  inevitable,  when  a 
knock  comes  to  the  front  door,  and  there  enters  a 
mutual  friend. 

Their  hasty  attempts  to  cover  up  the  traces  of 
mental  disorder  with  which  the  atmosphere  is 
strewed  do  not  deceive  him.  There  has  been,  let 
us  say,  a  ripple  on  the  waters  of  perfect  agree- 
ment.    Come!     What  was  it  all  about? 

"  About !  "  They  look  from  one  to  the  other. 
Surely  it  would  be  simpler  to  tell  him  what  it 
had  not  been  about.    It  had  been  about  the  par- 


322  THEY  AND  I 

rot,  about  her  want  of  punctuality,  about  his 
using  the  butter-knife  for  the  marmalade,  about 
a  pair  of  slippers  he  had  lost  at  Christmas,  about 
the  education  question,  and  her  dressmaker's  bill, 
and  his  friend  George,  and  the  next-door  dog 

The  mutual  friend  cuts  short  the  catalogue. 
Clearly  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  begin  the 
quarrel  all  over  again;  and  this  time,  if  they  will 
put  themselves  into  his  hands,  he  feels  sure  he 
can  promise  victory  to  whichever  one  is  in  the 
right. 

Elvira — she  has  a  sweet,  impulsive  nature — 
throws  her  arms  around  him :  that  is  all  she  wants. 
If  only  Adolphus  could  be  brought  to  see!  Adol- 
phus  grips  him  by  the  hand.  If  only  Elvira  would 
listen  to  sense. 

The  mutual  friend — he  is  an  old  stage-manager 
— arranges  the  scene:  Elvira  in  easy-chair  by  fire 
with  crochet.  Enter  Adolphus.  He  lights  a  cig- 
arette; flings  the  match  on  the  floor;  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  paces  up  and  down  the  room; 
kicks  a  footstool  out  of  his  way. 

"  Tell  me  when  I  am  to  begin,"  says  Elvira. 

The  mutual  friend  promises  to  give  her  the 
right  cue. 


THEY  AND  I  323 

Adolphus  comes  to  a  halt  in  the  centre  of  the 
room. 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  dear,"  he  says,  "  but  there  is 
something  I  must  say  to  you — something  that  may 
not  be  altogether  pleasant  for  you  to  hear." 

To  which  Elvira,  still  crocheting,  replies,  "  Oh, 
indeed.    And  pray  what  may  that  be?  " 

This  was  not  Elvira's  own  idea.  Springing 
from  her  chair,  she  had  got  as  far  as:  "Look 
here.     If  you  have  come  home  early  merely  for 

the  purpose  of  making  a  row "  before  the 

mutual  friend  could  stop  her.  The  mutual  friend 
was  firm.  Only  by  exacting  strict  obedience  could 
he  guarantee  a  successful  issue.  What  she  had 
got  to  say  was,  "  Oh,  indeed.  Etcetera."  The 
mutual  friend  had  need  of  all  his  tact  to  prevent 
its  becoming  a  quarrel  of  three. 

Adolphus,  allowed  to  proceed,  explained  that 
the  subject  about  which  he  wished  to  speak  was 
the  subject  of  dinner.  The  mutual  friend  this 
time  was  beforehand.  Elvira's  retort  to  that  was: 
"Dinner!  You  complain  of  the  dinners  I  pro- 
vide for  you?"  enabling  him  to  reply,  "Yes, 
madam,  I  do  complain,"  and  to  give  reasons.  It 
seemed  to  Elvira  that  the  mutual  friend  had  lost 


324  THEY  AND  I 

his  senses.  To  tell  her  to  "wait";  that  "her 
time  would  come  ";  of  what  use  was  that!  Half 
of  what  she  wanted  to  say  would  be  gone  out  of 
her  head.  Adolphus  brought  to  a  conclusion  his 
criticism  of  Elvira's  kitchen;  and  then  Elvira, 
incapable  of  restraining  herself  further,  rose  ma- 
jestically. 

The  mutual  friend  was  saved  the  trouble  of 
suppressing  Adolphus.  Until  Elvira  had  finished 
Adolphus  never  got  an  opening.  He  grumbled 
at  their  dinners.  He!  who  can  dine  night  after 
night  with  his  precious  Freemasons.  Does  he 
think  she  likes  them  any  better?  She,  doomed  to 
stay  at  home  and  eat  them.  What  does  he  take 
her  for?  An  ostrich?  Whose  fault  is  it  that  they 
keep  an  incompetent  cook  too  old  to  learn  and 
too  obstinate  to  want  to?  Whose  old  family  serv- 
ant was  she?  Not  Elvira's.  It  has  been  to  please 
Adolphus  that  she  has  suffered  the  woman.  And 
this  is  her  reward.  This!  She  breaks  down. 
Adolphus  is  astonished  and  troubled.  Personally 
he  never  liked  the  woman.  Faithful  she  may 
have  been,  but  a  cook  never.  His  own  idea,  had 
he  been  consulted,  would  have  been  a  small  pen- 
sion.    Elvira  falls  upon  his  neck.     Why  did  he 


THEY  AND  I  325 

not  say  so  before?  Adolphus  presses  her  to  his 
bosom.  If  only  he  had  known!  They  promise 
the  mutual  friend  never  to  quarrel  again  without 
his  assistance. 

The  acting  all  round  was  quite  good.  Our 
curate,  who  is  a  bachelor,  said  it  taught  a  lesson. 
Veronica  had  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  whispered  to 
me  that  she  thought  it  beautiful.  There  is  more  in 
Veronica  than  people  think. 


CHAPTER  XII 

I  AM  sorry  the  house  is  finished.  There  is  a 
proverb :  "  Fools  build  houses  for  wise  men  to 
live  in."  It  depends  upon  what  you  are  after. 
The  fool  gets  the  fun,  and  the  wise  men  the  bricks 
and  mortar.  I  remember  a  whimsical  story  I 
picked  up  at  the  bookstall  of  the  Gare  de  Lyon. 
I  read  it  between  Paris  and  Fontainebleau  many 
years  ago.  Three  friends,  youthful  Bohemians, 
smoking  their  pipes  after  the  meagre  dinner  of  a 
cheap  restaurant  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  fell  to 
thinking  of  their  poverty,  of  the  long  and  bitter 
struggle  that  lay  before  them. 

"  My  themes  are  so  original,"  sighed  the  Mu- 
sician. "  It  will  take  me  a  year  of  fete  days  to 
teach  the  public  to  understand  them,  even  if  ever 
I  do  succeed.  And  meanwhile  I  shall  live  un- 
known, neglected;  watching  the  men  without 
ideals  passing  me  by  in  the  race,  splashed  with  the 
mud  from  their  carriage-wheels  as  I  beat  the  pave- 
ments with  worn  shoes.  It  is  really  a  most  unjust 
world." 

326 


THEY  AND  I  327 

"  An  abominable  world,"  agreed  the  Poet. 
11  But  think  of  me !  My  case  is  far  harder  than 
yours.  Your  gift  lies  within  you.  Mine  is  to 
translate  what  lies  around  me;  and  that,  for  so 
far  ahead  as  I  can  see,  will  always  be  the  shadow 
side  of  life.  To  develop  my  genius  to  its  fullest 
I  need  the  sunshine  of  existence.  My  soul  is  be- 
ing starved  for  lack  of  the  beautiful  things  of  life. 
A  little  of  the  wealth  that  vulgar  people  waste 
would  make  a  great  poet  for  France.  It  is  not 
only  of  myself  that  I  am  thinking." 

The  Painter  laughed.  "  I  cannot  soar  to  your 
heights,"  he  said.  "  Frankly  speaking,  it  is  my- 
self that  chiefly  appeals  to  me.  Why  not?  I  give 
the  world  Beauty,  and  in  return  what  does  it  give 
me?  This  dingy  restaurant,  where  I  eat  ill-fla- 
voured food  off  hideous  platters,  a  foul  garret  giv- 
ing on  to  chimney-pots.  After  long  years  of  ill- 
requited  labour  I  may — as  others  have  before  me 
— come  into  my  kingdom:  possess  my  studio  in 
the  Champs  Elysees,  my  fine  house  at  Neuilly; 
but  the  prospect  of  the  intervening  period,  I  con- 
fess, appalls  me." 

Absorbed  in  themselves,  they  had  not  noticed 
that  a  stranger,  seated  at  a  neighbouring  table, 


328  THEY   AND    I 

had  been  listening  with  attention.  He  rose  and, 
apologising  with  easy  grace  for  intrusion  into  a 
conversation  he  could  hardly  have  avoided  over- 
hearing, requested  permission  to  be  of  service. 
The  restaurant  was  dimly  lighted;  the  three 
friends  on  entering  had  chosen  its  obscurest  cor- 
ner. The  Stranger  appeared  to  be  well-dressed; 
his  voice  and  bearing  suggested  the  man  of  affairs; 
his  face — what  feeble  light  there  was  being  behind 
him — remained  in  shadow. 

The  three  friends  eyed  him  furtively:  possibly 
some  rich  but  eccentric  patron  of  the  arts;  not 
beyond  the  bounds  of  speculation  that  he  was 
acquainted  with  their  work,  had  read  the  Poet's 
verses  in  one  of  the  minor  magazines,  had  stum- 
bled upon  some  sketch  of  the  Painter's  while  bar- 
gain-hunting among  the  dealers  of  the  Quartier 
St.  Antoine,  been  struck  with  the  beauty  of  the 
Composer's  Nocturne  in  F  heard  at  some  student's 
concert;  having  made  inquiries  concerning  their 
haunts,  had  chosen  this  method  of  introducing 
himself.  The  young  men  made  room  for  him 
with  feelings  of  hope  mingled  with  curiosity.  The 
affable  Stranger  called  for  liqueurs,  and  handed 


THEY   AND    I  329 

round  his  cigar  case.  And  almost  his  first  words 
brought  them  joy. 

"  Before  we  go  further,"  said  the  smiling 
Stranger,  "it  is  my  pleasure  to  inform  you  that 
all  three  of  you  are  destined  to  become  great." 

The  liqueurs  to  their  unaccustomed  palates  were 
proving  potent.  The  Stranger's  cigars  were  sin- 
gularly aromatic.  It  seemed  the  most  reasonable 
thing  in  the  world  that  the  Stranger  should  be  thus 
able  to  foretell  to  them  their  future. 

"  Fame,  fortune  will  be  yours,"  continued  the 
agreeable  Stranger.  "  All  things  delightful  will 
be  to  your  hand:  the  adoration  of  women,  the 
honour  of  men,  the  incense  of  Society,  joys  spir- 
itual and  material,  beauteous  surroundings,  choice 
foods,  all  luxury  and  ease,  the  world  your  pleasure- 
ground." 

The  stained  walls  of  the  dingy  restaurant  were 
fading  into  space  before  the  young  men's  eyes. 
They  saw  themselves  as  gods  walking  in  the  gar- 
den of  their  hearts'  desires. 

"  But,  alas,"  went  on  the  Stranger — and  with 
the  first  note  of  his  changed  voice  the  visions  van- 
ished, the  dingy  walls  came  back — "  these  things 


330  THEY  AND  I 

take  time.  You  will,  all  three,  be  well  past  mid- 
dle-age before  you  will  reap  the  just  reward  of 
your  toil  and  talents.  Meanwhile — "  the  sympa- 
thetic Stranger  shrugged  his  shoulders — "  it  is 
the  old  story:  genius  spending  its  youth  battling 
for  recognition  against  indifference,  ridicule,  envy; 
the  spirit  crushed  by  its  sordid  environment,  the 
drab  monotony  of  narrow  days.  There  will  be 
winter  nights  when  you  will  tramp  the  streets, 
cold,  hungry,  forlorn ;  summer  days  when  you  will 
hide  in  your  attics,  ashamed  of  the  sunlight  on 
your  ragged  garments;  chill  dawns  when  you  will 
watch  wild-eyed  the  sufferings  of  those  you  love, 
helpless  by  reason  of  your  poverty  to  alleviate 
their  pain." 

The  Stranger  paused  while  the  ancient  waiter 
replenished  the  empty  glasses.  The  three  friends 
drank  in  silence. 

"  I  propose,"  said  the  Stranger,  with  a  pleasant 
laugh,  "that  we  pass  over  this  customary  period 
of  probation — that  we  skip  the  intervening  years 
— arrive  at  once  at  our  true  destination." 

The  Stranger,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  re- 
garded the  three  friends  with  a  smile  they  felt 
rather    than    saw.      And    something    about    the 


THEY  AND  I  331 

Stranger — they  could  not  have  told  themselves 
what — made  all  things  possible. 

"  A  quite  simple  matter,"  the  Stranger  assured 
them.  "  A  little  sleep  and  a  forgetting,  and  the 
years  lie  behind  us.  Come,  gentlemen.  Have  I 
your  consent?  " 

It  seemed  a  question  hardly  needing  answer. 
To  escape  at  one  stride  the  long,  weary  struggle; 
to  enter  without  fighting  into  victory !  The  young 
men  looked  at  one  another.  And  each  one,  think- 
ing of  his  gain,  bartered  the  battle  for  the  spoil. 

It  seemed  to  them  that  suddenly  the  lights  went 
out;  and  a  darkness  like  a  rushing  wind  swept  past 
them,  filled  with  many  sounds.  And  then  for- 
getfulness.     And  then  the  coming  back  of  light. 

They  were  seated  at  a  table,  glittering  with  sil- 
ver and  dainty  chinaware,  to  which  the  red  wine 
in  Venetian  goblets,  the  varied  fruits  and  flowers, 
gave  colour.  The  room,  furnished  too  gorgeously 
for  taste,  they  judged  to  be  a  private  cabinet  in 
one  of  the  great  restaurants.  Of  such  interiors 
they  had  occasionally  caught  glimpses  through 
open  windows  on  summer  nights.  It  was  softly 
illuminated  by  shaded  lamps.  The  Stranger's 
face  was  still  in  shadow.    But  what  surprised  each 


332  THEY  AND  I 

of  the  three  most,  was  to  observe  opposite  him  two 
more  or  less  bald-headed  gentlemen  of  somewhat 
flabby  appearance,  whose  features,  however,  in 
some  mysterious  way  appeared  familiar.  The 
Stranger  had  his  wine-glass  raised  in  his  hand. 

"  Our  dear  Paul,"  the  Stranger  was  saying, 
44  has  declined,  with  his  customary  modesty,  any 
public  recognition  of  his  triumph.  He  will  not 
refuse  three  old  friends  the  privilege  of  offering 
him  their  heartiest  congratulations.  Gentlemen, 
I  drink  not  only  to  our  dear  Paul,  but  to  the  French 
Academy,  which  in  honouring  him  has  honoured 
France." 

The  Stranger,  rising  from  his  chair,  turned  his 
piercing  eyes — the  only  part  of  him  that  could  be 
clearly  seen — upon  the  astonished  Poet.  The  two 
elderly  gentlemen  opposite,  evidently  as  bewil- 
dered as  Paul  himself,  taking  their  cue  from  the 
Stranger,  drained  their  glasses.  Still  following 
the  Stranger's  lead,  leant  each  across  the  table  and 
shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand. 

11 1  beg  pardon,"  said  the  Poet,  "  but  really  I 
am  afraid  I  must  have  been  asleep.  Would  it 
sound  rude  to  you  " — he  addressed  himself  to  the 
Stranger :  the  faces  of  the  elderly  gentlemen  oppo- 


THEY  AND  I  333 

site  did  not  suggest  their  being  of  much  assistance 
to  him — "  if  I  asked  you  where  I  was?  " 

Again  there  flickered  across  the  Stranger's  face 
the  smile  that  was  felt  rather  than  seen.  "  You 
are  in  a  private  room  of  the  Cafe  Pretali,"  he  an- 
swered. "  We  are  met  this  evening  to  celebrate 
your  recent  elevation  into  the  company  of  the  Im- 
mortals." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Poet,  "thank  you." 

"The  Academy,"  continued  the  Stranger,  "is 
always  a  little  late  in  these  affairs.  Myself,  I 
could  have  wished  your  election  had  taken  place 
ten  years  ago,  when  all  France — all  France  that 
counts,  that  is — was  talking  of  you.  At  fifty- 
three  " — the  Stranger  touched  lightly  with  his 
fingers  the  Poet's  fat  hand — "  one  does  not  write 
as  when  the  sap  was  running  up,  instead  of 
down." 

Slowly,  memory  of  the  dingy  cafe  in  the  Rue 
St.  Louis,  of  the  strange  happening  that  took 
place  there  that  night  when  he  was  young,  crept 
back  into  the  Poet's  brain. 

"  Would  you  mind,"  said  the  Poet,  "  would 
it  be  troubling  you  too  much  to  tell  me  something 
of  what  has  occurred  to  me?" 


334  THEY  AND  I 

"Not  in  the  least,"  responded  the  agreeable 
Stranger.  "  Your  career  has  been  most  interesting 
— for  the  first  few  years  chiefly  to  yourself.  You 
married  Marguerite.  You  remember  Margue- 
rite?" 

The  Poet  remembered  her. 

"A  mad  thing  to  do,  so  most  people  would 
have  said,"  continued  the  Stranger.  "  You  had 
not  a  sou  between  you.  But,  myself,  I  think  you 
were  justified.  Youth  comes  to  us  but  once.  And 
at  twenty-five  our  business  is  to  live.  Undoubtedly 
the  marriage  helped  you.  You  lived  an  idyllic  ex- 
istence, for  a  time,  in  a  tumble-down  cottage  at 
Suresnes,  with  a  garden  that  went  down  to  the 
river.  Poor,  of  course  you  were;  poor  as  church 
mice.  But  who  fears  poverty  when  hope  and  love 
are  singing  on  the  bough!  I  really  think  quite 
your  best  work  was  done  during  those  years  at  Su- 
resnes. Ah,  the  sweetness,  the  tenderness  of  it! 
There  has  been  nothing  like  it  in  French  poetry. 
It  made  no  mark  at  the  time;  but  ten  years  later 
the  public  went  mad  about  it.  She  was  dead 
then.  Poor  child,  it  had  been  a  hard  struggle. 
And,  as  you  may  remember,  she  was  always  frag- 
ile.    Yet  even  in  her  death  I  think  she  helped 


THEY  AND  I  335 

you.  There  entered  a  new  note  into  your  poetry, 
a  depth  that  had  hitherto  been  wanting.  It  was 
the  best  thing  that  ever  came  to  you,  your  love 
for  Marguerite." 

The  Stranger  refilled  his  glass,  and  passed  the 
decanter.    But  the  Poet  left  the  wine  unheeded. 

"  And  then,  ah,  yes,  then  followed  that  excur- 
sion into  politics.  Those  scathing  articles  you 
wrote  for  La  Liberte!  It  is  hardly  an  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that  they  altered  the  whole  aspect 
of  French  political  thought.  Those  wonderful 
speeches  you  made  during  your  election  campaign 
at  Angers.  How  the  people  worshipped  you! 
You  might  have  carried  your  portfolio  had  you 
persisted.  But  you  poets  are  such  restless  fellows. 
And  after  all,  I  dare  say  you  have  really  accom- 
plished more  by  your  plays.  You  remember — no, 
of  course,  how  could  you? — the  first  night  of  La 
Conqucte.  Shall  I  ever  forget  it!  I  have  always 
reckoned  that  the  crown  of  your  career.  Your 
marriage  with  Madame  Deschenelle — I  do  not 
think  it  was  for  the  public  good.  Poor  Deschen- 
elle's  millions — is  it  not  so?  Poetry  and  millions 
interfere  with  one  another.  But  a  thousand  par- 
dons, my  dear  Paul.    You  have  done  so  much.    It 


336  THEY  AND  I 

is  only  right  you  should  now  be  taking  your  ease. 
Your  work,  is  finished." 

The  Poet  does  not  answer.  Sits  staring  before 
him  with  eyes  turned  inward.  The  Painter,  the 
Musician:  what  did  the  years  bring  to  them?  The 
Stranger  tells  them  also  of  all  that  they  have  lost: 
of  the  griefs  and  sorrows,  of  the  hopes  and  fears 
they  have  never  tasted,  of  their  tears  that  ended 
in  laughter,  of  the  pain  that  gave  sweetness  to  joy, 
of  the  triumphs  that  came  to  them  in  the  days  be- 
fore triumph  had  lost  its  savour,  of  the  loves 
and  the  longings  and  fervours  they  would  never 
know.  All  was  ended.  The  Stranger  had  given 
them  what  he  had  promised,  what  they  had  de- 
sired: the  gain  without  the  getting. 

Then  they  break  out. 

"  What  is  it  to  me,"  cries  the  Painter,  "  that  I 
wake  to  find  myself  wearing  the  gold  medal  of 
the  Salon,  robbed  of  the  memory  of  all  by  which 
it  was  earned?  " 

The  Stranger  points  out  to  him  that  he  is  illog- 
ical; such  memories  would  have  included  long 
vistas  of  meagre  dinners  in  dingy  restaurants,  of 
attic  studios,  of  a  life  the  chief  part  of  which  had 
been  passed  amid  ugly  surroundings.     It  was  to 


THEY  AND  I  337 

escape  from  all  such  that  he  had  clamoured.  The 
Poet  is  silent. 

"  I  asked  but  for  recognition,"  cries  the  Musi- 
cian, "that  men  might  listen  to  me;  not  for  my 
music  to  be  taken  from  me  in  exchange  for  the 
recompense  of  a  successful  tradesman.  My  in- 
spiration is  burnt  out;  I  feel  it.  The  music  that 
once  filled  my  soul  is  mute." 

"  It  was  born  of  the  strife  and  anguish,"  the 
Stranger  tells  him,  "  of  the  loves  that  died,  of 
the  hopes  that  faded,  of  the  beating  of  youth's 
wings  against  the  bars  of  sorrow,  of  the  glory  and 
madness  and  torment  called  Life,  of  the  struggle 
you  shrank  from  facing." 

The  Poet  takes  up  the  tale. 

"  You  have  robbed  us  of  Life,"  he  cries.  "  You 
tell  us  of  dead  lips  whose  kisses  we  have  never 
felt,  of  songs  of  victory  sung  to  our  deaf  ears. 
You  have  taken  our  fires,  you  have  left  us  but  the 
ashes." 

"The  fires  that  scorch  and  sear,"  the  Stranger 
adds,  "the  lips  that  cried  in  their  pain,  the  victory 
bought  of  wounds. 

"  It  is  not  yet  too  late,"  the  Stranger  tells  them. 
"All  this  can  be  but  a  troubled  dream,  growing 


338  THEY  AND  I 

fainter  with  each  waking  moment.  Will  you  buy 
back  your  Youth  at  the  cost  of  ease?  Will  you 
buy  back  Life  at  the  price  of  tears?" 

They  cry  with  one  voice,  "  Give  us  back  our 
Youth  with  its  burdens,  and  a  heart  to  bear  them ! 
Give  us  back  Life  with  its  mingled  bitter  and 
sweet !  " 

Then  suddenly  the  Stranger  stands  revealed 
before  them.  They  see  that  he  is  Life — Life  born 
of  battle,  Life  made  strong  by  endeavour,  Life 
learning  song  from  suffering. 

There  follows  more  talk;  which  struck  me,  when 
I  read  the  story,  as  a  mistake;  for  all  that  he  tells 
them  they  have  now  learnt:  that  life  to  be  en- 
joyed must  be  lived;  that  victory  to  be  sweet  must 
be  won. 

They  awake  in  the  dingy  cafe  in  the  Rue  St. 
Louis.  The  ancient  waiter  is  piling  up  the  chairs 
preparatory  to  closing  the  shutters.  The  Poet 
draws  forth  his  small  handful  of  coins;  asks  what 
is  to  pay.  "  Nothing,"  the  waiter  answers.  A 
stranger  who  sat  with  them  and  talked  awhile 
before  they  fell  asleep  has  paid  the  bill.  They 
look  at  one  another,  but  no  one  speaks. 

The  streets  are  empty.     A  thin  rain  is  falling. 


THEY  AND  I  339 

They  turn  up  the  collars  of  their  coats;  strike 
out  into  the  night.  And  as  their  footsteps  echo 
on  the  glistening  pavement  it  comes  to  each  of 
them  that  they  are  walking  with  a  new,  brave 
step. 

I  feel  sorry  for  Dick — for  the  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  happy,  healthy,  cared-for  lads  of  whom 
Dick  is  the  type.  There  must  be  millions  of 
youngsters  in  the  world  who  have  never  known 
hunger,  except  as  an  appetiser  to  their  dinner; 
who  have  never  felt  what  it  is  to  be  tired,  without 
the  knowledge  that  a  comfortable  bed  was  await- 
ing them. 

To  the  well-to-do  man  or  woman  life  is  one 
perpetual  nursery.  They  are  wakened  in  the 
morning — not  too  early,  not  till  the  nursery  has 
been  swept  out  and  made  ready,  and  the  fire 
lighted — awakened  gently  with  a  cup  of  tea  to 
give  them  strength  and  courage  for  this  great 
business  of  getting  up — awakened  with  whispered 
words,  lest  any  sudden  start  should  make  their 
little  heads  ache — the  blinds  carefully  arranged 
to  exclude  the  naughty  sun,  which  otherwise  might 
shine  into  their  little  eyes  and  make  them  fretful. 
The  water,  with  the  nasty  chill  off,  is  put  ready 


34Q  THEY  AND  I 

for  them;  they  wash  their  little  hands  and  faces, 
all  by  themselves!  Then  they  are  shaved  and 
have  their  hair  done;  their  little  hands  are  mani- 
cured, their  little  corns  cut  for  them.  When  they 
are  neat  and  clean,  they  toddle  in  to  breakfast; 
they  are  shown  into  their  little  chairs,  their  little 
napkins  handed  to  them;  the  nice  food  that  is  so 
good  for  them  is  put  upon  their  little  plates;  the 
drink  is  poured  out  for  them  into  their  cups.  If 
they  want  to  play,  there  is  the  day  nursery.  They 
have  only  to  tell  kind  nurse  what  game  it  is  they 
fancy.  The  toys  are  at  once  brought  out.  The 
little  gun  is  put  into  their  hand;  the  little  horse  is 
dragged  forth  from  its  corner,  their  little  feet  care- 
fully placed  in  the  stirrups.  The  little  ball  and  bat 
is  taken  from  its  box. 

Or  they  will  take  the  air,  as  the  wise  doctor 
has  ordered.  The  little  carriage  will  be  ready  in 
five  minutes;  the  nice  warm  cloak  is  buttoned 
round  them,  the  footstool  placed  beneath  their 
feet,  the  cushion  at  their  back. 

The  day  is  done.  The  games  have  been  played; 
the  toys  have  been  taken  from  their  tired  hands, 
put  back  into  the  cupboard.  The  food  that  is  so 
good  for  them,  that  makes  them  strong  little  men 


THEY  AND  I  341 

and  women  has  all  been  eaten.  They  have  been 
dressed  for  going  out  into  the  pretty  Park,  un- 
dressed and  dressed  again  for  going  out  to  tea 
with  the  little  boys  and  girls  next  door;  undressed 
and  dressed  again  for  the  party.  They  have  read 
their  little  book,  have  seen  a  little  play,  have 
looked  at  pretty  pictures.  The  kind  gentleman 
with  the  long  hair  has  played  the  piano  to  them. 
They  have  danced.  Their  little  feet  are  really 
quite  tired.  The  footman  brings  them  home. 
They  are  put  into  their  little  nighties.  The  can- 
dle is  blown  out,  the  nursery  door  is  softly 
closed. 

Now  and  again  some  restless  little  man,  weary- 
ing of  the  snug  nursery,  will  run  out  past  the 
garden  gate,  and  down  the  long  white  road;  will 
find  the  North  Pole  or,  failing  that,  the  South 
Pole,  or  where  the  Nile  rises,  or  how  it  feels  to 
fly;  will  climb  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon — do 
anything,  go  anywhere  to  escape  from  Nurse  Civ- 
ilisation's everlasting  apron  strings. 

Or  some  queer  little  woman,  wondering  where 
the  people  come  from,  will  run  and  run  till  she 
comes  to  the  great  town,  watch  in  wonder  the 
strange  folk  that  sweat  and  groan — the  peaceful 


342  THEY  AND  I 

nursery,  with  the  toys,  the  pretty  frocks  never 
quite  the  same  again  to  her. 

But  to  the  nineteen-twentieths  of  the  well-to-do 
the  world  beyond  the  nursery  is  an  unknown  land. 
Terrible  things  occur  out  there  to  little  men  and 
women  who  have  no  pretty  nursery  to  live  in. 
People  push  and  shove  you  about,  will  even  tread 
on  your  toes  if  you  are  not  careful.  Out  there  is 
no  kind,  strong  Nurse  Bank  Balance  to  hold  one's 
little  hand,  and  see  that  no  harm  comes  to  one. 
Out  there,  one  has  to  fight  one's  own  battles. 
Often  one  is  cold  and  hungry,  out  there.  One  has 
to  fend  for  oneself,  out  there;  earn  one's  dinner  be- 
fore one  eats  it,  never  quite  sure  of  the  week  after 
next.  Terrible  things  take  place,  out  there :  strain 
and  contest  and  fierce  endeavour;  the  ways  are 
full  of  danger  and  surprises;  folk  go  up,  folk 
go  down;  you  have  to  set  your  teeth  and  fight. 
Well-to-do  little  men  and  women  shudder.  Draw 
down  the  nursery  blinds. 

Robina  had  a  little  dog.  It  led  the  usual  dog's 
life :  slept  in  a  basket  on  an  eiderdown  cushion, 
sheltered  from  any  chance  draught  by  silk  cur- 
tains; its  milk  warmed  and  sweetened;  its  cosy 
chair  reserved  for  it,  in  winter,  near  the  fire;  in 


THEY  AND  I  343 

summer,  where  the  sun  might  reach  it;  its  three 
meals  a  day  that  a  gourmet  might  have  eaten 
gladly;  its  very  fleas  taken  off  its  hands. 

And  twice  a  year  still  extra  care  was  needed, 
lest  it  should  wantonly  fling  aside  its  days  arid 
nights  of  luxurious  ease,  claim  its  small  share  of 
the  passion  and  pain  that  go  to  the  making  of 
dogs  and  men.  For  twice  a  year  there  came  a 
wind,  salt  with  the  brine  of  earth's  ceaseless  tides, 
whispering  to  it  of  a  wondrous  land  whose  sharp- 
est stones  are  sweeter  than  the  silken  cushions  of 
all  the  world  without. 

One  winter's  night  there  was  great  commotion. 
Babette  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  We  were  liv- 
ing in  the  country,  miles  away  from  everywhere. 
"Babette,  Babette,"  cried  poor  frenzied  Robina; 
and  for  answer  came  only  the  laughter  of  the 
wind,  pausing  in  his  game  of  romps  with  the  snow- 
flakes. 

Next  morning  an  old  woman  from  the  town 
four  miles  away  brought  back  Babette  at  the  end 
of  a  string.  Oh,  such  a  soaked,  bedraggled  Ba- 
bette! The  old  woman  had  found  her  crouching 
in  a  doorway,  a  bewildered  little  heap  of  palpi- 
tating femininity;  and,  reading  the  address  upon 


344  THEY  AND  I 

her  collar,  and  may  be  scenting  a  not  impossible 
reward,  had  thought  she  might  as  well  earn  it  for 
herself. 

Robina  was  shocked,  disgusted.  To  think  that 
Babette — dainty,  petted,  spoilt  Babette — should 
have  chosen  of  her  own  accord  to  go  down  into 
the  mud  and  darkness  of  the  vulgar  town;  to  leave 
her  curtained  eiderdown  to  tramp  the  streets  like 
any  drab!  Robina,  to  whom  Babette  had  hith- 
erto been  the  ideal  dog,  moved  away  to  hide  her 
tears  of  vexation.  The  old  dame  smiled.  She 
had  borne  her  good  man  eleven,  so  she  told  us. 
It  had  been  a  hard  struggle,  and  some  had  gone 
down,  and  some  were  dead;  but  some,  thank  God, 
were  doing  well. 

The  old  dame  wished  us  good-day;  but  as  she 
turned  to  go  an  impulse  seized  her.  She  crossed 
to  where  Babette,  ashamed,  yet  half  defiant,  sat 
a  wet,  woeful  little  image  on  the  hearthrug, 
stooped  and  lifted  the  little  creature  in  her  thin, 
worn  arms. 

"  It's  trouble  you've  brought  yourself,"  said 
the  old  dame.  "  You  couldn't  help  it,  could 
you?" 

Babette's  little  pink  tongue  stole  out. 


THEY  AND  I  345 

"  We    understand,    we   know — we    Mothers," 
— they  seemed  to  be  saying  to  one  another. 
And  so  the  two  kissed. 

I  think  the  terrace  will  be  my  favourite  spot. 
Ethelbertha  thinks,  too,  that  on  sunny  days  she 
will  like  to  sit  there.  From  it,  through  an  open- 
ing I  have  made  in  the  trees,  I  can  see  the  cottage 
just  a  mile  away  at  the  edge  of  the  wood.  Young 
Bute  tells  me  it  is  the  very  place  he  has  been  look- 
ing for.  Most  of  his  time,  of  course,  he  has  to 
pass  in  town,  but  his  Fridays  to  Mondays  he  likes 
to  spend  in  the  country.  May  be  I  shall  hand  it 
over  to  him.  St.  Leonard's  chimneys  we  can  also 
see  above  the  trees.  Dick  tells  me  he  has  quite 
made  up  his  mind  to  become  a  farmer.  He  thinks 
it  would  be  a  good  plan,  for  a  beginning,  to  go 
into  partnership  with  St.  Leonard.  It  is  not 
unlikely  that  St.  Leonard's  restless  temperament 
may  prompt  him  eventually  to  tire  of  farming. 
He  has  a  brother  in  Canada  doing  well  in  the  lum- 
ber business,  and  St.  Leonard  often  talks  of  the 
advantages  of  the  colonies  to  a  man  who  is  bring- 
ing up  a  large  family.  I  shall  be  sorry  to  lose 
him  as  a  neighbour;  though  I  see  the  advantages, 


346  THEY  AND  I 

under  certain  possibilities,  of  Mrs.  St.  Leonard's 
address  being  Manitoba. 

Veronica  also  thinks  the  terrace  may  come  to  be 
her  favourite  resting-place. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Veronica,  "that  if  anything 
was  to  happen  to  Robina,  everything  would  fall 
on  me." 

"  It  would  be  a  change,  Veronica,"  I  suggested. 
"  Hitherto  it  is  you  who  have  done  most  of  the 
falling." 

"  Suppose  I've  got  to  see  about  growing  up," 
said  Veronica. 


THE  END 


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